


want to bleed your blood (want to be let in)

by ghostinthelibrary



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Double Penetration, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, One-Sided Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Oral Sex, Past Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining, Requited Unrequited Love, Rimming, Slow Burn, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Threesome - M/M/M, but not actually one-sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:20:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 35,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28291530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary
Summary: Geralt had a speech. He practiced it on Roach throughout his travels to Oxenfurt. He knew it by heart.“You’re my best friend. You’re important to me. I want you by my side year-round. I love you.”It’s all things he should have said this past spring, when he looked into Jaskier’s too-blue eyes and realized that he would do anything for this ridiculous, impossible, infuriating bard. But he hadn’t, and now it’s too late, because Jaskier has found himself a witcher more worthy of him than Geralt could ever be.After years of denying his feelings, Geralt finally works up the nerve to tell Jaskier how he feels, only to find his bard has found a new love— Geralt’s childhood best friend and first love, Eskel.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 109
Kudos: 432
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [K5C8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/K5C8/gifts).



> Happy holidays to everyone who is celebrating! This is my Witcher Secret Santa fic for [K5C8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/K5C8/pseuds/K5C8). I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> This was supposed to be a short, fluffy one shot and then it somehow became 35K of pining. Still not sure how that happened. Thank you to teamfreehoodies for betaing!
> 
> Title is from Heavy by Birdtalker.

Geralt doesn’t know exactly when Eskel and Jaskier started sleeping together. He doesn’t even know that they know each other until he goes to surprise Jaskier at the Oxenfurt Music Festival and finds him arm-in-arm— not with some married noble lady or blushing barmaid or burly stablehand— but _Eskel._

For a moment, Geralt thinks he must be mistaken. Maybe the lean, dark-haired man in a lavender doublet leaning against Eskel isn’t his bard. But then Eskel’s companion throws back his head and laughs and Geralt knows without a doubt that that’s Jaskier. No one else on the fucking Continent has a laugh like that: warm, rich, and sweet. Eskel, who normally doesn’t smile where anyone can see his scars stretch, grins down at him with unabashed fondness. They have the look of two people who have known each other for years, who know each other’s bodies inside and out.

Geralt has known Jaskier for eight years now and for every single one of those eight years, Jaskier has urged Geralt to come see him perform at the Oxenfurt Music Festival.

“I don’t do music festivals,” Geralt tells him every year.

“Have you ever _been_ to a music festival, Geralt?”

“Do I seem like someone who goes to music festivals, bard?”

“Then how do you know you don’t like them?”

“I can make an educated fucking guess.”

Geralt and Jaskier always meet up in the spring after Geralt returns from Kaer Morhen, separate in the summer while Jaskier makes the music festival circuit, then briefly reunite in the autumn before Geralt makes his way to Kaedwen. If Jaskier has been sleeping with Eskel, it must have started during the summer months. Geralt wonders how long it’s been going on. Does Jaskier even know that Eskel is Geralt’s dearest and oldest friend? Does Eskel know that Jaskier is Geralt’s bard?

Geralt was expecting a lot of things when he showed up at the Oxenfurt Music Festival. He wasn’t expecting to find his oldest friend and first love arm in arm with the man Geralt came here to confess _his_ love to. 

It’s Jaskier who notices him first. The bard turns and his gaze meets Geralt’s across the crowd of people milling around. His eyes widen and an enormous smile splits his face. “Geralt!” People turn to stare at the bard as he releases Eskel’s arm and sprints across the space between them, throwing his arms around Geralt’s neck. He smells like lavender, chamomile, mead, and Eskel. They’ve had sex recently; Jaskier has bathed since, but Geralt can smell the traces of sweat and seed on him.

“You came!” Jaskier says into Geralt’s shoulder. “Melitele’s tits, Geralt, I thought I was going to have to stage my own kidnapping one year to get you here.”

“Hm. Wouldn’t have worked. Would have sent the kidnappers a thank you note.”

“Well, fuck you very much. It’s good to see you too. Now, come on! Eskel and I were actually just talking about you. He’ll be glad to see you.” Jaskier grabs Geralt’s hand and drags him through the crowd towards Eskel.

“Wolf.” Eskel doesn’t throw his arms around Geralt, but he reaches out to clasp his shoulder. Even after all these years, Geralt feels a prickle of warmth at the touch. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Was just passing through the area,” Geralt mumbles, because there’s no way he’s going to confess the true purpose of this visit now, not when Jaskier is leaning against Eskel and looking up at the other witcher with adoring eyes. “Jaskier never shuts up about this festival. Figured I should see what the fuss was about.”

Jaskier huffs. “I never shut up about it because—”

“It’s the most prestigious music festival in the Continent, the event that makes or breaks troubadours' reputations,” Eskel says with an indulgent smile, like he’s parroting something that’s been said to him many times before.

Jaskier pats Eskel’s hand fondly. “I’ve learned that selective hearing isn’t a trait that all witchers share, Geralt. Some people listen to me.”

“He hasn’t learned how to tune you out yet.”

“Oh, Geralt, darling, I don’t know why I miss you when we’re separated.”

“Hm.” Geralt turns to Eskel. “What are you doing in Oxenfurt? Doubt they get many monsters in the city.”

“Was just passing through.” Eskel’s lips curl into a soft, secret smile as he looks down at Jaskier. “And I found a good reason to stay.”

Eskel used to look at Geralt like that, when they were fresh on the Path and would meet up at dingy inns in backwater villages. It’s foolish to feel the sudden, sharp surge of jealousy that rushes through Geralt. He’s the one who ended things with Eskel. It was for the best; the last thing Eskel needed was to be associated with the Butcher of Blaviken any more than he already was. It was bad enough that Geralt ruined his own reputation. He refused to drag kind, gentle Eskel down with him.

That doesn’t stop Geralt from wanting. And want he does as Eskel brushes a kiss across Jaskier’s temple.

“Mm.” Jaskier turns his head to capture Eskel’s mouth with his. “As much as I’d like to stay here all day, it’s about time for my performance.”

“Don’t let us keep you, songbird,” Eskel says.

“You’re staying for the competition?” Jaskier turns to Geralt with a hopeful look. “I know this isn’t your kind of thing.”

Music festivals aren’t his thing, but Geralt enjoys watching Jaskier perform. Not that Geralt can ever tell Jaskier that; the bard would be insufferable. “Guess I can suffer through it.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Your enthusiasm is heartening, dearest. Eskel, don’t let him run off.“

“I’ll do my best,” Eskel says dryly.

“I have nothing but faith in you.” Jaskier drops another kiss onto Eskel’s lips, then turns to hurry into the crowd, leaving Geralt and Eskel alone.

***

When he first arrived at Kaer Morhen, Geralt had quickly realized that crying was a bad idea. Crying meant punishment and after only a few short days at the keep, Geralt had already learned to be terrified of Master Varin’s punishments. But he was tired and scared and he wanted to go home. He wanted his mother, even if she no longer wanted him. Part of him thought that maybe if he was very good— if he didn’t talk too loud or ask too many questions or get in anyone’s way— she would want him back.

But on his third night at Kaer Morhen, one of the older boys, Clovis, had pushed him down right before bed, causing Geralt to skin his hands and both his knees, and the other boys had laughed. And when Geralt had cried, Master Varin had shouted at him and threatened to get the belt if Geralt didn’t “man up.” So now Geralt was lying on his cot, trying to muffle his sniffles with a pillow, terrified that Master Varin would be able to hear him from the other side of the keep.

“Hey, it’s okay,” a soft voice said.

Geralt couldn’t see much in the darkness, but he could vaguely make out the shape of someone standing next to his cot. When they leaned closer, he could vaguely make out the features of another one of the students in his cohort, a stocky, brown-haired boy with a broad face and a wide smile.

“Clovis is an asshole,” the boy said. “So is Master Varin.”

Geralt’s eyes went wide.

The boy smiled. “He can’t hear us. Witcher hearing isn’t that strong. You can cry all you want, and it won’t get you in trouble. We all cry sometimes.”

Geralt sniffled and wiped his eyes.

“It’s Geralt, right?” the boy asked.

Geralt nodded.

“I’m Eskel.” The boy settled down on the edge of Geralt’s cot. “I can sit with you until you fall asleep, if you want.”

Geralt hesitated, then nodded.

“Go to sleep, Geralt,” Eskel said. “It’s okay.”

And for the first time since he got to Kaer Morhen, Geralt slept through the night.

***

As Geralt and Eskel stand in the crowd in front of the stage, watching the young blond woman who’s currently belting out a ballad about heartbreak and revenge, Geralt doesn’t know how to start this conversation. He doesn’t even know if he wants to have this conversation. “So you and Jaskier.”

Eskel looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “You seem surprised.”

“Not surprised. Just wondering how it happened.”

“Well, I was sitting at a tavern five days ago, minding my own business, when a bard came prancing up to me, sat down, and started talking. Next thing I knew, I was agreeing to escort him the rest of the way to Oxenfurt.”

“And fucking him.”

“Is that a problem?” Eskel asks in a deceptively mild voice.

“No,” Geralt says, though he’s not sure if that’s the truth yet. “You’ve only known him for a few days? You two act like you’ve known each other longer.”

“You know how he is.” Eskel looks towards the stage. “Five minutes after meeting me, he acted like we’d known each other forever. It’s starting to feel like it.”

“Hm.”

“You never told me that you traveled with the bard who wrote ‘Toss a Coin.’ I didn’t get the impression that you knew him at all.”

“You never asked.” There’s a thunderous applause as the woman finishes her song.

When the noise dies down, Eskel says, “And you didn’t tell him about me. He knows nothing about our school.”

“Don’t want him to write a song about us. Lambert would hunt him down.”

Eskel chuckles. “I like him, Geralt.”

Jaskier saunters onto the stage, waving jauntily to the crowd.

“He’s likable,” Geralt says.

“I’m going to tell him you said that.”

“I’ll kick your ass if you do.”

“I hope this won’t make things uncomfortable between the two of you,” Eskel says.

“So it’s going to keep happening?”

“If I have anything to say about it.”

Geralt is wondering if he should break it to Eskel that Jaskier takes new lovers in nearly every town they pass through, that he falls in love quickly and easily and falls out of love without a second thought. Eskel has been through enough; Geralt doesn’t want to see his heart broken. And while Jaskier doesn’t mean to be reckless with his partners’ affections, he convinces people to adore him without even trying.

But then Jaskier looks across the crowd and his eyes land on Geralt and Eskel. No, on Eskel. And a smile crosses his face the likes of which Geralt hardly ever sees from him. Jaskier smiles constantly. The smiles he flashes to pretty girls and handsome men are wicked things, full of promise. There are the sharp, almost cruel smiles he gives to aldermen who don’t want to pay Geralt a fair price right before he verbally tears into them. There’s the blinding smile he wears when he’s performing, all white teeth and broad winks. There are the soft, private smiles that curl his lips when he’s composing and thinks of a particularly good line.

But this smile is pure affection. And the only times Geralt has ever seen it before, it’s been directed at him. Something hot and shameful curdles in his gut and he has to turn his face away so Eskel doesn’t see it. 

When Jaskier begins to sing, it’s a love song that Geralt hasn’t heard before, one about a golden-eyed lover with a kind heart and gentle hands. It’s not the song Jaskier was writing for the festival this past spring. He practiced it so much on their travels together that Geralt knows pretty much every single word, despite his best efforts not to. When he glances over at Eskel, he sees that his fellow witcher’s cheeks have turned a ruddy color.

“He wrote this for you,” Geralt says. It’s not a question.

Eskel ducks his head, looking sheepish. “The other night. Said he was inspired.”

The song is damn good, Geralt has to admit, every line filled with raw emotion. It’s probably one of the best he’s heard from Jaskier. It has none of the exaggeration of “Toss a Coin” or the winking smugness of “Fishmonger’s Daughter.” Eskel deserves every word written about his kindness and warmth. There was a time Geralt was the recipient of all that kindness and warmth, before he fucked it up.

When the song draws to a close, there’s a thunderous roar of applause. Jaskier whips his hat off his head and bows so low Geralt thinks he’s going to fall over. Geralt tracks him with his eyes until Jaskier is off the stage and out of sight, an old habit. The larger the crowd, the more likely that someone here has been cuckolded by the bard. It’s best to keep an eye on him and make sure he’s not about to get a knife between the ribs.

“He says you two have known each other for eight years?” Eskel asks.

"About that."

“And you haven’t…”

Geralt tenses. “No.”

“Do you want to—”

“No,” Geralt says. “Come on, let’s come find him before some jilted husband slips poison in his drink.”

Eskel chuckles as they slip through the crowd of people. “I’m more worried about him slipping poison in Valdo Marx’s drink.”

“What the fuck is a Valdo Marx?”

Eskel gives him a strange look. “Jaskier’s nemesis since his schoolboy days, the troubadour of Cidaris. He tells anyone who will listen that Jaskier’s songs are derivative nonsense. He’s also won this festival the last three years in a row.”

Geralt vaguely remembers Jaskier once going on a long rant heavily featuring the words “pretentious whoreson” and “joyless hack,” but he’s fairly certain he tuned it out. “Know where I can find Valdo Marx? He sounds like someone I would like.”

“I’ll do you a favor and never tell Jaskier you said that,” Eskel says with a grin. He moves through the crowd with ease, nodding and smiling politely at people as he passes them. 

When they find Jaskier backstage, he immediately throws himself into Eskel’s arm. “What did you think?” he asks.

“You did great, songbird,” Eskel says warmly and Geralt watches as Jaskier seems to melt.

“And you?” Jaskier turns earnest blue eyes on Geralt. “What did you think?”

“Better than ‘Toss a Coin.’”

Jaskier claps his hand over his chest. “Geralt, my dear, was that a compliment?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“It was! I’m truly flattered. I’ll remember this moment for the rest of my days. The day I got Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf himself, to admit that he liked one of my songs.”

“I admit nothing.”

“I loved it.” Eskel presses a kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head. “I’m proud of you.”

“Well, I’ve had so much material for inspiration these past few days.” Jaskier reaches up to cup Eskel’s face in his hands. Eskel doesn’t even flinch when Jaskier touches his scars.

Geralt has no idea what the fuck is going on. Whatever it is, he hates it.

***

Close friendships among the witcher trainees were discouraged by the instructors at Kaer Morhen. When seven in ten boys were going to die horribly in the Trials, there was no room for attachments.

No amount of discouragement could separate Eskel and Geralt and eventually, the instructors stopped trying.

They ran amok though Kaer Morhen, getting into more trouble than any two boys run ragged by training every day should have been able to. Most days, life at Kaer Morhen was terrifying, frustrating, and miserable, but Geralt had Eskel. Every time Geralt looked over and saw his best friend’s whiskey brown eyes alight with mischief, wearing that crooked smile that always made his insides feel funny, he knew that everything would be okay in the end.

Eskel was the one who kept the rest of the cohort calm in the days leading up to the Trials. Even before his voice deepened, he had a slow, easy way of talking that put the people around him at ease. Even the older boys looked up to him. It wasn’t until the night before the Trials when Geralt found Eskel curled up in a remote corner in the keep, hugging himself and shaking, that Geralt realized that his friend was just as terrified as the rest of them.

Geralt was no good at offering comfort, even at sixteen. So all he did was sit down next to Eskel and sling his arm around his friend’s shoulder.

“You’ll make it,” he whispered. “You’re the best in the cohort. You’ll make it.”

He had to make it, because the thought of a world without Eskel was fucking unbearable.

Eskel took a long, shuddering breath. “It’s not me I’m scared for.”

Geralt had nothing to say to that, so he just held his friend, listening to Eskel’s harsh breathing as he tried not to cry. For years, he’d been trying to ignore the uncomfortable truth that he was in love with his best friend, but he felt it more keenly than ever in this moment on what was probably the last night of his life. His lips found Eskel’s before he knew he was doing. He tensed as soon as he realized what he had done, ready to pull away, but then Eskel was kissing him back. It was a clumsy, messy kiss, with teeth clacking together and noses getting in the way, but this was Eskel, so Geralt didn’t mind.

When Eskel finally pulled away, he pressed a second, chaste kiss to Geralt’s lips. “That’s not going to be the last time we do that.”

Geralt didn’t believe him. He doubted Eskel believed himself. But for a couple of minutes, they had the fantasy, and that was all that mattered.

***

No one is surprised when Jaskier wins first place at the Oxenfurt Music Festival, not even Jaskier, though he makes a big show of feigning shock and disbelief. Geralt notices him directing a particularly deep bow at a thin, fussy-looking blond man in the front row that Geralt assumes is Valdo Marx. Based on the venomous look Marx gives Jaskier in return, Geralt decides to smell everything that Jaskier eats or drinks for the rest of the day.

That night, Jaskier is in a jubilant mood, holding court in a tavern called The Rosemary & Thyme in Oxenfurt. Geralt is only too happy to blend into the background, like he often does when Jaskier is in performer mode. Eskel, on the other hand, is stuck to Jaskier’s side throughout the evening, with Jaskier keeping a proprietary hand on his lower back. Geralt watches, grudgingly impressed by how at ease Eskel seems.

When people meet Eskel, they tend to notice his scars first, his size second, and his slit-pupiled yellow eyes and wolf’s head medallion third. Even before he got his scars, Eskel cut an intimidating figure. Over the years, he’s learned how to put people at ease by standing in a way that makes himself seem smaller and smiling in such a way to avoid his scars stretching. It helps that he’s standing next to Jaskier, who is about as intimidating as a peacock. The other partygoers seem to think that if Jaskier can survive being in close proximity to Eskel, then they can as well.

“Where are you staying?” Eskel asks Geralt when he manages to pull himself away from the crowd.

“Probably stay in the stables with Roach.”

Eskel scoffs. “You think Jaskier’s going to let you sleep in the stables?”

Geralt’s eyes flicker to Jaskier, who is laughing with an older woman, head thrown back in mirth. It’s not his real laugh, it’s the canned chortle he uses when he’s trying to escape a conversation. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding. Jaskier wants to spend time with you and so do I.” Eskel looks over at Jaskier with an indulgent smile. “Anyway, I have to admit, it might be nice to get a bit of a break from all the fucking. He’s insatiable.”

“Didn’t need to know that.”

Eskel’s laughs, a low, warm sound that never fails to send a shiver up Geralt’s spine, even after all these years. He suddenly has a clear image of Jaskier and Eskel together— Jaskier’s leaner frame bracketed by Eskel’s strong arms, Jaskier’s head thrown back as Eskel nips at the column of his throat, Jaskier making those breathy moans that Geralt has heard through the walls of so many inns, the look on Eskel’s face when he comes. Geralt clears his throat, hoping the scents of so many bodies in such a small space will cover up the smell of his sudden arousal. Today has been filled with enough indignities; he doesn’t need to add another. 

That was apparently too much to hope for because as soon as the night draws to a close and Geralt follows Jaskier and Eskel up to their room, another indignity becomes apparent.

“There’s only one bed,” he says, staring at the offending piece of furniture with venom. It’s a decent size for an inn bed; two men could fit in it comfortably. But three?

“Well, we weren’t expecting company.” Jaskier pats Geralt on the chest. “Come on, let’s get you out of that armor. Are you going to need a bath, or can you wait until the morning?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I can sleep in the stables.”

“Don’t be silly. And you’re not sleeping on the floor either. We’ve fit in tighter spaces. Remember that hayloft last fall?”

The room smells like Eskel, Jaskier, and sex. Sleeping in here is the worst idea of Geralt’s life, but it’s also been weeks since he got to sleep in a warm bed. And he never sleeps better than when he has Jaskier next to him, where Geralt knows he’s safe.

“Gotta use the privy.” Eskel drops a kiss on Jaskier’s forehead. “You two get settled, I’ll be back.”

Geralt doesn’t know why the thought of Eskel leaving him alone with Jaskier makes him uneasy, but as soon as the door closes behind Eskel, Geralt feels off-kilter. He goes to strip off his armor, just managing not to startle when he feels Jaskier’s hands on his back.

“Let me help,” Jaskier murmurs.

Geralt holds still while the bard unfastens his armor. “I can undress myself.”

“Well aware. But isn’t it easier if I help?”

It is, but Geralt just hums in response.

“Thank you for coming,” Jaskier says. “It was a lovely surprise when I saw you in the crowd.”

“Didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You haven’t, Geralt, darling. I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you here. And you’re the reason I won today.”

“The song’s for Eskel.” Geralt can’t quite keep the traces of bitterness out of his voice.

“But I always sing better when you’re watching.”

Geralt turns to face the bard— _his_ bard. He doesn’t miss the slight hitch in Jaskier’s breath and the way his heart rate picks up.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Geralt says.

Jaskier’s eyes look very blue in the flickering candlelight. “Better late than never.”

Geralt smiles grimly, because Jaskier has no idea how late Geralt was. “I brought you something.”

Jaskier’s expression brightens. “Oh, a present? Geralt, you shouldn’t have.”

“It was a good luck present. You didn’t need it.” Geralt is glad for the excuse of going to his saddlebags to put some distance between him and Jaskier.

“Is it an undetectable poison for Valdo Marx? Because I’ve been thinking—”

“You can only have this if you promise not to use it on anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

“If you’re implying that Valdo Marx doesn’t deserve it, you are terribly mistaken.”

“Don’t make me regret this, bard.” Geralt hands him the package.

Jaskier unwraps it slowly, looking as excited as a small child on their name day. When the wrapping falls away, he makes a small, punched-out sound. It’s a silver dagger with a sheathe carved to look like the head of a phoenix, with tiny sapphires in place of the eyes.

“Geralt, it’s beautiful,” Jaskier breathes, looking up at him with something akin to awe.

Geralt swallows down the sour feeling in his gut. “Figured if it was pretty, you might actually use it, instead of losing it in a game of Gwent.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to use it on someone,” Jaskier says. “But I’ll treasure it always. Thank you.”

Geralt had a speech. He practiced it on Roach throughout his travels to Oxenfurt. He knew it by heart. _“You’re my best friend. You’re important to me. I want you by my side year-round. I love you.”_ It’s all things he should have said this past spring, when he looked into Jaskier’s too-blue eyes and realized that he would do anything for this ridiculous, impossible, infuriating bard. But he hadn’t, and now it’s too late, because Jaskier has found himself a witcher more worthy of him than Geralt could ever be.

“Geralt—” Jaskier starts to say, but then the door opens and Eskel returns. When he sees the knife in Jaskier’s hand, he smiles.

“Suits you, songbird.” Eskel wraps his arms around Jaskier from behind and pulls him close, causing Jaskier to make a happy little noise.

Geralt blinks, trying to clear his head. “I’ve been trying to teach this idiot how to defend himself for eight years. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

Jaskier sniffs. “I abhor violence, Geralt. I’m not about to stab a man.”

“I think you’d abhor having your throat slit even more.”

Jaskier squeezes Eskel’s arm and looks up at his lover through lowered lashes. “Well, I now have two big, strong witchers to keep me safe. No stabbing necessary.”

“Of course,” Eskel murmurs into his hair.

Geralt snorts. “You say that now, Esk. Just wait ‘til the first time he starts a bar fight then hides behind you so no one will smash his pretty face.”

“My face is our _moneymaker_ , Geralt, and that only happened once! Twice.”

“Three times.”

“Flotsam doesn’t count, because those cockweasels had it coming.”

Eskel laughs. “This is a story I’d like to hear tomorrow, I think, after a good night’s sleep.”

“Of course, dear heart.” Jaskier cranes his neck to kiss Eskel. That ugly, sour jealous feeling returns.“Let’s go to bed.”

The bed sharing is as tight as Geralt knew it would be, only working when all three men lay on their sides. Geralt takes the side of the bed closest to the door, his back turned towards the others as they shuffle to get comfortable. Jaskier’s ass is pressed against his and Geralt tries not to focus on that. They’ve slept like this plenty of times; it’s nothing special. When Jaskier squirms a little, Geralt clenches his jaw and tries to think of anything but how much he’d like to turn over and put his hands all over— 

“Goodnight, songbird,” Eskel murmurs.

“Sweet dreams, my love.” Jaskier already sounds half-asleep; he always drops off quickly, no matter the situation.

Jaskier’s breathing becomes deep and even with sleep only moments later, with Eskel’s following him not long after. Geralt remains wide awake, staring into the darkness. He chances a glance over his shoulder, then immediately wishes he hadn’t. Jaskier is pressed against Eskel’s chest, his head tucked under Eskel’s chin. Eskel has an arm wrapped around Jaskier, holding him close. As Geralt watches, he nuzzles at Jaskier’s hair and Jaskier makes a noise of sleepy contentment. Geralt thinks of all the nights Jaskier clung to him in his sleep and Geralt was so careful not to cling back, instead laying perfectly still. Had he known being cuddled would make Jaskier so happy…

Well, he probably would have done the same thing.

As Geralt turns back towards the door, a hand settles on Geralt’s hip. He knows it’s Jaskier’s hand without needing to look; he can feel the slender length of the bard’s fingers. His chest grows warm at the thought that Jaskier has reached out for him in his sleep, like he always does. Then a second hand joins Jaskier’s, covering Jaskier’s hand and spanning Geralt’s hip, and Geralt’s witcher slow heartbeat picks up. He chances a glance down and sees them— Jaskier’s lovely, graceful fingers entwined with Eskel’s thicker ones. The sight does something peculiar to Geralt’s stomach.

He shifts and their hands fall away.

Geralt doesn’t get much sleep that night.

***

Geralt never expected to survive the Trials. No one thought he would, not even Eskel. He’d always been the smallest of the boys in his cohort and only his friendship with Eskel, who everyone liked, stopped him from being a punching bag for the rest of the boys. But Geralt screamed and cried and suffered with the rest of the twenty boys in his cohort and _survived,_ along with Eskel, Clovis, Gweld, and Gascaden. The moment he woke up to hear Eskel croak his name, weak but alive, was one of the best moments of his life.

He made it through the next two Trials too, only to return from the Trial of the Mountain and learn that he wouldn’t be receiving his wolf’s head medallion with the other four boys, but instead had been chosen to undergo another round of Grasses, because he had taken the first batch so well. The mages wanted to see what would happen. The last thing Geralt heard as he was strapped to the table was Eskel screaming at Rennes, begging him to reconsider.

When Geralt woke up this time, he was alone. He was alone for a long time, unable to bear even the smallest bit of light or sound. It was weeks before he could leave the small, dark room where they kept him without wanting to curl in a ball and scream. Even after he adjusted to his heightened senses, he was taken out of the barracks and put into his own bedroom— there was no way he could endure the noise of dozens of boys together. The instructors framed it as an honor. Geralt knew it for what it was— separating the freak from the rest of the herd.

He was sitting alone in his room one night when he heard the shuffling of feet outside his door. Immediately, he knew it was Eskel working up the nerve to knock. Geralt could hear him breathing, his heart pounding, him scratching at the back of his head nervously.

Finally, Geralt got tired of waiting and went to open the door.

Eskel looked up at him, slit-pupiled yellow eyes wide. It was strange to see his whiskey brown eyes gone, as strange as it was for Geralt to look in the mirror and see yellow eyes instead of green and white hair instead of red. At the sight of the other boy, something squeezed in Geralt’s chest. The memory of that kiss the night before the Trials had been all that was getting him through the last few months.

“Geralt.” Eskel’s voice cracked as he pulled Geralt into a crushing hug. Eskel always gave the best hugs. Before the Trials, he’d dwarfed Geralt, his arms engulfing Geralt as he held him. Now, Geralt realized with a start that he was almost as broad through the chest and shoulders as Eskel, and just as tall. He pressed his cheek against Eskel’s and closed his eyes, surprised to find Eskel’s cheek damp with tears.

“They wouldn’t tell us what happened to you,” Eskel whispered. “Just that there were complications. I had no idea if…”

“I’m okay,” Geralt said, though he’d never felt less okay in his life.

“Fuck, Geralt, nothing about this is okay.”

Gently, Geralt put his arms around Eskel, terrified that if he held on too tight, he would hurt his friend. He didn’t know his own strength these days. “We’re both alive. That’s all that matters.”

Eskel laughed, but there was no humor in the sound.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmured.

“Why would you be sorry?”

“Because I’m not…” Geralt didn’t know how to put it into words. He wasn’t the boy Eskel had been best friends with since they were six years old, for a decade now. He was a white-haired freak, so monstrous that the other trainees had to be protected from him. “I’m not who I was.”

“Bullshit.” Eskel cupped the back of Geralt’s neck with his hand. “The Trials changed a lot, but they couldn’t change who you are.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Of course I do. You’re Geralt, the stubbornest little pain in the ass in Kaer Morhen and my best friend. No mutagen is going to take that away.”

Geralt snorted and looked up to meet Eskel’s eyes. “Eskel, I—”

When Eskel kissed him, his lips were as warm and gentle as Geralt remembered. There was nothing else to do, so Geralt just clung onto the boy he loved and let himself be held.

***

“Where will you go next?” Jaskier asks Geralt brightly the next morning as they pack up. Eskel is outside seeing to the horses.

Geralt hadn’t even thought about where he would go after Oxenfurt, because he assumed that he would be going wherever Jaskier went. But of course Jaskier and Eskel aren’t going to want Geralt traveling with him as they head to the next music festival of the season. They’re going to want to spend their days getting to know each other and their nights wrapped in each other’s arms. Geralt would only get in the way.

“Might see if there’s work in Novigrad,” Geralt says. “Usually something crawling around in the sewers.”

Jaskier wrinkles his nose. “Well, I’m certainly sorry I’ll miss that.”

“You?”

“Cintra, then Cidaris.”

“Eskel’s going with you?”

“At least until Cintra, I think. He’s welcome to travel with me as long as he wants, of course, but I’m sure he’ll need to get back to the Path eventually.” Jaskier looks a bit sad at that thought. “But I’ll meet you in Vizima around the equinox, yes?”

“You’ll still want to?”

“Why wouldn’t I… oh, Geralt.” Jaskier puts down the doublet he’s folding and turns to Geralt. “Is that why you’re acting so strange?”

Geralt freezes.

“Geralt, Eskel isn’t replacing you. You’re my best friend. You’ll always be one of the most important people in my life. Just because I think I’m falling in love with Eskel, it doesn’t mean that there’s no longer room in my heart for our friendship.”

Geralt schools his face into impassivity. “Okay.”

Jaskier’s lips twitch. “Effusive as always, I see.”

“Eskel’s a good man.”

“He may be the best man I’ve ever known, besides you.”

“No, he’s better than me.” Eskel has always been better than Geralt— kinder, stronger, more capable of love than anyone Geralt has ever known.

“Don’t sell yourself short.” Jaskier reaches up to brush Geralt’s hair out of his face.

“Don’t hurt him.” Geralt doesn’t add, _“like I hurt him.”_

Jaskier’s expression softens. “I would never.”

“He’s not… ever since what happened with Deidre, he doesn’t think he deserves to be loved.” Too late, Geralt wonders if he shouldn’t have mentioned Deidre, but Jaskier’s expression betrays no surprise or confusion.

Jaskier’s lips quirk into a sad smile. “You forget, I’ve spent eight years of my life best friends with another witcher who doesn’t think he deserves to be loved.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just grunts.

After a long moment of silence, Jaskier takes pity on him. “I know I’ve made some questionable romantic decisions in my life—”

“First time in your life you’ve ever made something sound less dramatic than it was.”

“Oh, hush, you. I have spent years fucking my way across the Continent, trying to find something that I never thought I would be able to have. And I found it with Eskel.”

“So no more fucking your way across the Continent?”

“Well, we have agreed that we can sleep with other people when we’re not together, so long as there are no secrets between us.”

“Hm.” It’s the same arrangement Geralt and Eskel used to have when they were on the Path. They found comfort in other people, with the knowledge that they would always come back to each other. Until they didn’t.

“But I’m going to be smarter about it from now on. I know, you won’t believe it until you see it.” Jaskier pats Geralt on the shoulder. “He’s safe with me, Geralt. I would never do anything to hurt him.”

“Good,” Geralt says, because there’s nothing else to say. He is happy for Jaskier and Eskel. They’ve found something together that he couldn’t give either of them.

Geralt is meant to be alone. He forgot that for a time. It’s good, he tells himself, that Jaskier has reminded him of that simple truth.

***

The jump from friends to… more with Eskel was as simple as breathing. They still spent their days training and their evenings stealing Varin’s vodka with the other trainees. But now, when Eskel’s knee brushed against Geralt’s, he knew it was on purpose. Whenever they were in an abandoned corridor and Geralt wanted to pull Eskel close and kiss him, he could. When there was a knock on his bedroom door in the middle of the night, he knew it was Eskel on the other side.

They were eighteen when they set out on the Path.

“We could travel together,” Eskel murmured on their last night in Kaer Morhen before they were supposed to leave. Geralt’s bed was far too small for the both of them, but they managed. “Not a lot of monsters that can best two witchers.”

Geralt pressed a kiss to the soft spot behind Eskel’s ear. “Not enough contracts out there for two witchers to make enough coin to live travelling together. Else more witchers would do it.”

“We could make it work.” Eskel sounded sad.

“We’ll meet up. Pick a place, and I’ll find you there. Anywhere on the Continent. You’ll see me so much, it will be like we’re still at Kaer Morhen.”

“It will never be enough, Wolf.” Geralt still wasn’t sure why Eskel had started calling him ‘Wolf,’ but he felt a little warm glow in his chest whenever his lover used the pet name.

“I’ll always be yours,” he told Eskel. “No matter how long we go without seeing each other. I’m always yours, Esk.”

***

After parting ways with Eskel and Jaskier, Geralt makes his way through Redania and then Temeria, taking every contract he can find. He gets shorted on more payments when Jaskier isn’t around to shame any aldermen who try to cheat him with scathing songs in barrooms. He also spends more time sleeping outside, not that he minds that. He has Roach for company, and that’s all he needs. He tells her that, many times, though the skeptical looks she gives him tell him how much she believes him.

He reunites with Jaskier in Vizima, as they do every year. He finds the bard at The Crone’s Eye, the tavern where they always meet, sitting at their usual table at the corner. “A prime brooding location,” Jaskier said once. “Though every place you sit becomes a prime brooding location.”

Jaskier looks good. Geralt does the customary once-over, checking for any signs of injury or distress, and finds none. The bard’s cheeks are pink from the sun and have the healthy roundness that tells Geralt he’s been eating well. He’s wearing a doublet that Geralt hasn’t seen before in a rich blue-green color.

“The ale has gotten shittier since last year,” Jaskier says cheerfully by way of greeting.

Geralt settles down across from him. “You say that every year.”

“And every year, it’s true.”

“We could meet somewhere else.”

“And break tradition? Perish the thought. So, any contracts in the near future, my dearest witcher?”

Geralt doesn’t point out that he’s no longer Jaskier’s dearest witcher. “Zeugl in the sewers, if you want to join me.”

“You know I don’t.”

“You sure? You could put that doublet out of its misery.”

The resultant splutter of indignation draws the attention of the tables around them. “How dare you? I’ll have you know, Eskel picked this color out for me himself!”

“Pretty sure he’s a little color blind.”

“And now you’re just making things up.”

They spend a pleasant afternoon catching up, which means Jaskier talks and Geralt listens. He doesn’t mind. The times he and Jaskier meet up in the spring and again in the fall are two of his favorite days of the year, though Geralt would never admit that to anyone. He sips contentedly at his ale— which is indeed pretty fucking terrible— and listens as Jaskier chatters happily about placing first at the Cintra Music Festival, second in Cidaris behind the dreaded Valdo Marx, and not placing at all in Novigrad, but he doesn’t mind, truly, because the bard who got first place, Priscilla, has one of the finest voices Jaskier has ever heard.

“Better than yours?” Geralt asks without thinking.

Jaskier grins. “Are you admitting that I have a nice voice, Geralt?”

“You do, which is why I don’t understand why you sing so much bullshit.”

“That bullshit is all in the name of improving your image Continent-wide.”

“If you say so.”

“Just because the occasional drunkard actually tosses a coin at your head doesn’t mean you can blame the song.”

“I think I can.”

“There are far worse things they could be tossing at your head.”

“Like bread?”

Jaskier’s eyes narrow. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

Geralt grins behind his tankard of ale. “No.”

The bard makes a huffy noise. “I’ll be heading towards Kaedwen with you next month. Eskel and I are going to try and meet up in Ard Carraigh before he goes to Kaer Morhen.”

Somehow, during their afternoon of talking and drinking, Geralt had forgotten how irrevocably things have changed between them recently. “That’s still going on?”

Jaskier quirks an eyebrow at him, “You sound surprised. You did threaten to rip me apart if I hurt him.”

“Never said that.”

“It was strongly implied,” Jaskier says. “And yes, it’s still going on. We parted ways after Cidaris, but we’ve been writing to each other. He’s in Brugge now.”

“Hm,” Geralt says.

“He said to tell you it was good to see you in Oxenfurt and he’s looking forward to seeing you this winter.”

Geralt nods.

“I’m glad that you have a friend,” Jaskier says. “Truly. I never realized.”

“You thought you were my only friend?”

“Can you blame me?”

Geralt snorts into his ale. “No.”

Jaskier grins. “He told me all kinds of stories of the two of you sneaking around Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt freezes halfway through putting his tankard down. “Did he?”

“He did.” A mischievous smile crosses Jaskier’s face. “The two of you chasing after bumblebees and playing pranks on your instructors and reading the dirty books in the library you weren’t supposed to know about. Sounds like you were a couple of hellions.”

“He was the hellion,” Geralt says, relaxing. He doesn’t know if he’s ready for Jaskier to know about his relationship with Eskel. “I just went along with it.”

“Funny, he said the exact same thing about you.”

“He would.”

“You two are more alike than you think you are, you know,” Jaskier says.

“He’s—”

“A better man than you. You’ve said. Which I maintain is bullshit.”

Geralt just shakes his head and rises to his feet. “Should get going if I want to take care of the zeugl before nightfall.”

“Ah, this conversation is getting too touchy feely for you, witcher?” Jaskier nods sagely.

“Could use the live bait, if you want to join me.”

“Oh, fuck off and go kill the giant slug.”

“Not a—”

“Fuck off and go kill the giant not-a-slug.”

The fight with the giant not-a-slug is quick, but unpleasant, as fighting any large, slimy creature in a sewer would be. By the time Geralt emerges from the sewers, he’s covered in ichor, among other substances that he’d prefer not to think about. People on the street give him a wide berth as he makes his way back to the inn where he and Jaskier are staying. When he enters, the innkeeper opens his mouth to protest, but one scowl from Geralt silences him. Geralt trudges upstairs, hoping that Jaskier called for a bath. He needs one.

He’s so preoccupied that he doesn’t realize that Jaskier isn’t alone in their room until he pushes open the door and finds Jaskier sitting on his bed with Eskel next to him. They’re clearly as surprised to see Geralt as Geralt is to see Jaskier with company— from the rumpled state of Jaskier’s doublet and the fresh bruise on his neck, they’ve been keeping themselves busy in Geralt’s absence.

“Oh, dear gods.” Jaskier makes no mention of the fact that Geralt is clearly interrupting what was about to be an intimate moment between them. He leaps to his feet. “You couldn’t have cleaned yourself off a bit first?”

Geralt shrugs. “Wanted to show you what you were missing when you refused to be zeugl bait.”

“Oh, ha. Leave your armor at the door and get into the tub. Don’t touch _anything_.”

Geralt complies. Jaskier doesn’t help him undress, instead hovering around him with a look of disgust on his face. Geralt doesn’t take it personally; for someone who’s been traveling with a witcher for as long as Jaskier has, he’s still squeamish about things like monster guts and ichor.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Geralt says to Eskel as he shucks off his armor. “Thought you were in Brugge.”

Eskel smiles sheepishly. “I had to come north for a contract, and then I kept coming north.” He glances at Jaskier. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course we don’t!” Jaskier says before Geralt can say anything. “We’re always happy to see you, Eskel.”

Which isn’t untrue. Geralt is always happy to see his oldest friend. So he’s not sure why he resents the fact that he won’t have Jaskier to himself tonight. It’s not like he had plans for the evening. Jaskier was probably going to perform, Geralt was going to sit in the corner and watch him, and then they were going to go to sleep in separate beds, since they were able to find a room with two beds for once.

“It’s not often I know exactly where you’re going to be, Wolf.” The corners of Eskel’s eyes crinkle as he smiles at Geralt. “Have to take advantage of it when I can.”

Geralt frowns at that, since he’s not sure why Eskel would be here to see him.

“Oh, stop frowning and get in the tub.” Jaskier flaps his hands at Geralt. “You smell like something died on you.”

“Something did die on me,” Geralt reminds him. “A zeugl.”

“And I’d rather not be reminded of that, if you please. Bathtub!”

Geralt goes to bathe. The water already smells like Jaskier’s chamomile and lavender oils; the bard must have taken a bath earlier. Jaskier doesn’t help him wash his hair, instead sitting on his bed with Eskel and hanging onto Eskel’s every word about the vampire hunt in Brugge. Geralt closes his eyes and tries to ignore the scents of arousal pouring off the two other men and the hollow pit of disappointment in his gut.

***

The first time Eskel and Geralt met up after leaving Kaer Morhen, they barely said a word. After months on the Path, they were both so weary that they just fell into each other’s arms. The local innkeep wasn’t willing to let a room to two witchers, so they camped under the stars, huddled together by a fire as they held each other close.

“It’s worse than I thought,” Eskel said after a while. “I knew it would be hard. I knew people would hate us. But it’s so much worse.”

Geralt, who had killed a man who undoubtedly deserved it months ago and still had nightmares about the girl he had saved screaming and vomiting when he approached her, could only say, “I know.”

***

After dinner, Geralt decides to head to the brothel down the road. It will give Eskel and Jaskier time to reunite properly and will help Geralt blow off some steam. He hires a pretty female whore that looks nothing like Jaskier— little, round, and redheaded— but he can’t stop himself from closing his eyes and imagining that it’s Jaskier underneath him as he fucks her. Halfway through, the mental image shifts from Jaskier to Eskel and Geralt’s hips start pumping faster of their own accord. After he’s found his release and helped her find hers three times, Geralt pays her generously and heads back to the inn.

As he makes his way towards the room, he focuses on the sounds coming from his room. The last thing he wants is to walk in on Eskel and Jaskier fucking. Sharing a room with both of them is going to be hard enough tonight. But instead of hearing the sounds of enthusiastic fucking, he hears his own name. Geralt freezes in the middle of the hallway.

“I’m sorry,” he hears Jaskier murmur. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine, songbird,” Eskel replies. “It was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt. We never get over our first love, not really.” Jaskier sounds unbearably sad.

“No, I guess we don’t.” There’s the sound of bed springs squeaking as either Eskel or Jaskier shifts. “He’s still my closest friend, no matter what happened between us. I don’t want you to think otherwise.”

“I don’t,” Jaskier says. “Why did it end?”

Eskel laughs humorlessly.”Wish I fucking knew. Geralt went missing after Blaviken for years. We had no idea what happened to him. Thought he was dead, until I heard rumors about him being chased out of a town in Poviss. But when I found him… it was like everything had changed. He didn’t want to be with me anymore.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“It was the first time he’d seen me since what happened with Deidre. It was the first time he saw my scars. And he couldn’t even look at me.”

“Oh, Eskel,” Jaskier whispers.

It takes everything in Geralt not to slam into the room, because how could Eskel think for a second that Geralt ended things between him because of his scars? Geralt ended things because Blaviken only reinforced what he had always known— that Eskel was far too good and noble for someone like Geralt. That Eskel deserved someone without innocent blood on their hands. Eskel didn’t need to be associated with the Butcher of Blaviken; it would only get him hurt, and Geralt couldn’t have that on his conscience.

“It’s really okay,” Eskel says. “Like I said, it was a long time ago.”

There’s a long silence, during which Geralt holds his breath.

It’s Eskel that finally breaks the silence. “I can’t regret it. It hurt like hell, but loving him was the only bright spot of my life growing up at Kaer Morhen. Loving him is what got me through the Trials. Loving him kept me alive on the Path. And loving him brought me to you.”

Jaskier makes a small sound.

“I love you, Jaskier,” Eskel says. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in over a decade. And everything— the Trials, the Path, losing Geralt— it was all worth it because it brought me to you. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Jaskier laughs, sounding slightly choked. “I love you too. Fuck, I love you so much.”

Geralt can’t listen to this anymore. He goes downstairs to drink himself into oblivion in the tavern, not returning to the room until well after Jaskier and Eskel are asleep.

***

Geralt didn’t return to Kaer Morhen for the three years after what happened in Blaviken. He couldn’t face them, couldn’t bring himself to tell Vesemir, Eskel, and Lambert what had happened, how badly he had fucked up. Geralt knew they wouldn’t be cruel about it, but he felt like he deserved their scorn. He deserved blame for the renewed contempt and fear witchers were facing Continent-wide. A Bear witcher had been killed near Blaviken only a couple of months before and the only thing Geralt could think was that it was his damn fault.

He’d learned to start keeping his hood up to hide his white hair and his wolf’s head medallion stashed under his armor. He only got contracts when the people hiring him thought he was just another anonymous witcher. Most people would rather have a wyvern stealing their sheep or foglets luring travelers off the roads than have the Butcher of Blaviken anywhere near their families.

He was camping in the middle of a dingy swamp in Velen, huddled next to a campfire, when he heard the sounds of footsteps approaching. Geralt went very still. It had been days since he’d seen another person; he’d been traveling through the swamps on foot, dealing with a drowner infestation. He was between Roaches at the moment; he’d had to sell the old one so he could afford food and didn’t have the coin to buy a new one. It was lonely on the road without a horse to talk to.

Not that whoever was walking towards him would want to talk. They were probably here to rob or kill him. Even if they were a hapless traveler drawn by the light of his campfire, one look at him would send them fleeing in the opposite direction. Geralt didn’t turn to look at his visitor. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

“Geralt?”

Geralt hadn’t heard that voice in years, but he knew it as well as he knew his own. He turned and saw a familiar broad figure standing behind him, the hood of his cloak pulled up to obscure his face. “Eskel?” Geralt asked cautiously, because it could be a foglet or some other creature here to confuse him.

“Fuck.” Eskel’s voice cracked. “We all thought you were dead.”

Geralt was only halfway to his feet when Eskel rushed into his arms, nearly knocking him over.

“Gods damn it, Geralt.” Eskel clutched at him like he thought Geralt was going to vanish at any moment. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been looking for you for months.”

There are so many things Geralt could have said to Eskel at the moment. What came out was, “Why?”

“Why?” Eskel asked incredulously. “Because I thought you were dead until I heard a rumor that you almost got hung in Poviss last year.”

Geralt grimaced at that memory.

“And I’ve been searching for you ever since. Why haven’t you come back to Kaer Morhen? We mourned you. We burnt a pyre for you last winter.” Eskel’s voice cracked again and he took a deep breath. “What happened?”

“I couldn’t come back. Not after Blaviken.” Geralt released Eskel to take a step back.

“Blaviken wasn’t your fault.”

“How would you know? Haven’t you heard? I lost my mind with bloodlust and massacred dozens of people.”

“Bullshit.” Eskel stepped towards Geralt and his hood slipped from his head, revealing his face.

Geralt barely managed to suppress his gasp. There were three jagged red lines slashed down the side of Eskel’s face, one of which twisted his lip into a snarl, revealing the glint of a tooth. Geralt couldn’t tell if the scars were caused by claws or a blade. Either way, it was lucky Eskel hadn’t lost an eye.

Eskel’s lips twisted in a humorless way that looked all wrong on his face. “You weren’t the only one who had a run in with a Black Sun princess. They’re not as bad as they look.”

Geralt looked away. Eskel had a way of working around the prejudice that witchers faced. He was charming, with a friendly smile and a way of making himself appear harmless. Those scars were going to change that, Geralt knew. They were going to make Eskel’s life so much harder than it had to be.

Being a known associate of the Butcher of Blaviken would make it worse. It was bad enough that they belonged to the same school. But if people saw Geralt and Eskel together too much, if word spread that they were more than friends and brothers in arms… well, Eskel’s life could get unpleasant very quickly. Maybe even dangerous, if someone like Stregobor came after him.

“Geralt?” Eskel’s voice was suddenly tentative.

Geralt knew what he had to do. He was going to hate himself for it, but it was the best thing for Eskel. So he turned to the man he loved and broke both of their hearts.

***

They part ways with Eskel after two days in Vizima— Eskel to head south and Geralt and Jaskier to travel north. They go through northern Temeria and Redania, picking up contracts and gathering inspiration for new songs. It feels so familiar that Geralt keeps forgetting that things have changed between them. Mostly because Jaskier doesn't seem to realize that anything _has_ changed. The only difference with Jaskier is that he spends less time falling into bed with married people. There’s still the occasional barmaid, but they’re fewer and farther between. Maybe he really was looking for something for all those years. He still flirts up a storm, because he’s Jaskier, and nearly gets stabbed by a jealous husband in Tretogor, but that’s to be expected.

When the days begin to grow shorter and the nights bitterly cold, Geralt knows it’s time to part ways for the winter. Jaskier still has plans to meet Eskel in Ard Carraigh and Geralt plans on finding a brothel and spending a day or two in a whore’s bed before he has to satisfy himself with his own hand for the rest of the winter.

“You could join us in Ard Carraigh,” Jaskier tells Geralt on their last night in an inn a half a day’s ride south of the city. “I know Eskel would love to see you.”

Geralt doesn’t look up from sharpening his sword. “Eskel’s going to spend all winter with me.”

“I won’t, though.” Jaskier looks a bit put out, which annoys Geralt. It wasn’t his idea for them to split up a couple of weeks earlier than they normally would so Jaskier can spend that time in his lover’s bed.

“You’ll see me in the spring.”

Jaskier’s lips curl into a sad little smile. “The spring is far away, Geralt.”

“I'm not going to come to Ard Carraigh to watch you and Eskel play grab ass.” The words come out with more venom than Geralt intends.

A furrow creases Jaskier’s brow, but all he says is, “Alright, fine. I suppose I’ll see you in the spring then.”

They part ways the next day, with Jaskier heading by himself to Ard Carraigh. Geralt offers to at least accompany him to the city, but Jaskier turns him down, so he instead finds the nearest brothel. He spends three days there in the arms of a cheerful young man with a broad smile and pretty blue eyes— not as pretty as Jaskier’s, but still nice— before he runs out of coin and gets thrown out on his ass. It was a stupid waste of money, and he now no longer has the coin to get the supplies he normally arrives at Kaer Morhen with, so he finds himself needing to pick up odd contracts on his way north.

It’s been nearly two weeks since he parted ways with Jaskier when he’s in the little town at the base of the Trail leading up to Kaer Morhen. He’s haggling with a farmhand over the price of a donkey when he hears a familiar voice call his name and turns to see Eskel hurrying towards him.

The first thing that Geralt notices is that his fellow witcher looks wrecked, with dark shadows under his eyes and a strained expression. Geralt has only seen that look on his face once before, when he met Geralt at the gate of Kaer Morhen to tell him that the keep had fallen and most of their brothers were dead in the rubble. Geralt feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

He knows what Eskel is going to say an instant before the words come out of his mouth. “It’s Jaskier.”

Geralt abandons the farmhand and the overpriced donkey without a second thought, striding towards Eskel. “What happened?”

“Someone took him.” Eskel scrubs a hand over his face. “I knew something was wrong as soon as he didn’t show up in Ard Carraigh. When I went to search for him, I found him being held hostage by a group of trained mercenaries. I managed to kill two of them, but then one of them put a crossbow bolt through my gut. And while I was bleeding out in the fucking dirt, they got away with Jaskier.”

Geralt glances down at Eskel’s stomach. He doesn’t smell any blood.

“I’m fine, Wolf. Got lucky. Locals found me and brought me to a healer, but I spent nearly a week unconscious.”

“And then you came to find me.”

“I’m still not at full strength,” Eskel says, which seems an understatement to Geralt. “I need help. There are too many of them.”

“Why would someone take Jaskier?” It occurs to Geralt that it could be an old enemy of his, slipped out of the woodwork.

“My guess is they want his father to pay a ransom.”

“Who’s his father?” Jaskier never wants to talk about his family and Geralt never asks.

Eskel frowns at him. “The Earl de Lettenhove. Jaskier is the Viscount de Lettenhove.”

It isn’t the most unexpected answer Eskel could give him, but it’s close. Geralt always figured Jaskier was nobility; common folk don’t get to send their children to Oxenfurt. But he always assumed that Jaskier was a third or fourth son of a minor barony, one who could wander the Continent without consequence. But Lettenhove is the wealthiest holding in Redania and the Earl de Lettenhove is probably the second most powerful man in the kingdom after King Vizimir. And if Jaskier is set to inherit all that, it means he’s far from the humble bard he pretends to be.

“The Earl won’t pay a ransom,” Eskel says. “He cut Jaskier off when he was twenty. Didn’t approve of the company he kept.”

Geralt sucks in a breath. “Doesn’t mean he won’t pay. Jaskier is still his son.”

Eskel shakes his head. “Jaskier isn’t his son by birth. The Countess de Lettenhove apparently had an affair with his steward, and Jaskier is a spitting image of her lover. The Earl will be all too happy to have his late wife’s part-elf bastard dead and buried so one of his own sons will be the heir to the earldom.”

“Part-elf?” Geralt croaks.

“He never told you?”

It seems like there’s a long list of things Jaskier never told Geralt, and there’s no time to dwell on how much that hurts. “They’re probably taking him west, towards Redania.”

The knowledge that if they go after Jaskier, they won’t make it to Kaer Morhen this winter, remains unspoken. If they have to choose between Jaskier’s life and a winter in the keep, it’s no contest.

Eskel nods. “We need to find him before his kidnappers realize they won’t get any coin for him. I can’t lose him, Geralt.”

“Neither can I,” Geralt murmurs, soft enough that his friend won’t be able to hear.

***

The first winter at Kaer Morhen after ending things with Eskel should have been awkward. Geralt climbed the Trail, expecting to be met with anger or avoidance. At the very least, he expected questions about Blaviken from the other witchers. Instead, he was met with a few “long time, no sees” from his fellow witchers and the normal snarky comment from Lambert. As for Eskel, he greeted Geralt with the usual, “Good to see you, Wolf,” and a friendly clap on the shoulder, and that was it.

It would have been easier if Eskel was angry. If he left the room every time Geralt walked in or got too aggressive during sparring. But Eskel was his normal self, except for the part where he no longer snuck up to Geralt’s bedroom in the middle of the night. It baffled Geralt. Surely, he deserved Eskel’s rage. He had broken his former lover’s heart.

Unless it was only Geralt who had a broken heart. Maybe Eskel was unaffected by Geralt ending things between them.

“So, you two aren’t fucking anymore?” Lambert asked one day when the two of them were out hunting for dinner.

Geralt nearly dropped his crossbow. The arrow he had been aiming at a stag went wide and his quarry bounded off into the trees. He turned to glare at the other witcher. “The fuck are you talking about?”

Lambert shrugged. He was younger than Geralt and Eskel, on the Path for less than a decade. Geralt didn’t know him well; Lambert was too prickly to form a close friendship with. “You and Eskel. You’re not fucking anymore.”

“We’re not—”

“Come on. Even the trainees knew about it. The two of you weren’t subtle.”

Geralt reevaluated decades of sneaking around, kissing in quiet corners, muffling their moans with their pillows at night. “Fuck you.”

“Nah, you’re not my type.”

“What the fuck do you want, Lambert?”

“Nothing,” Lambert said. “Just curious, is all. You didn’t leave him because of the scars, did you?”

Geralt snarled at him and the younger witcher raised his hands in surrender.

“I’m just saying,” Lambert said. “There are five people I like in this hellhole, and Eskel is one of them. He spent three winters crying into his White Gull because he thought you were dead. Think he deserves better than that.”

“He does.” Geralt turned away.”Why do you think I ended things with him?’

***

Winter always hits hard and fast in the Northern Kingdoms. It begins to snow as Geralt and Eskel ride west into Redania. By the time they’ve reached the middle of Redania— still a week’s ride from Lettenhove, which sits on the border of Redania and Kerack— the world is blanketed in white and the terrain has grown treacherous for Roach and Scorpion. They have to take it slower than Geralt would like, but he knows that if one of their horses breaks a leg, they’re fucked.

When they do stop to rest, neither he nor Eskel sleep. Instead, they take turns falling into fitful bouts of meditation. Geralt is haunted by images of Jaskier surrounded by nameless, faceless mercenaries that don’t give a shit if he lives or dies, who might hurt him just for fun. Jaskier, murdered in cold blood because the family he never talks about doesn’t want him back. Jaskier, waiting for Eskel and Geralt to find him.

They have to find him. The alternative, that Jaskier could die alone and afraid at the end of a blade, is too much for Geralt to bear.

Eskel grows more and more exhausted with every day, as listless and empty-eyed as a wraith.

“You need to sleep,” Geralt tells him. They had found a lost child wandering in the woods and returned her to her parents earlier in the day. As a thank you, the family is allowing them to stay in their barn overnight. A winter storm howls outside.

“I can’t sleep.” Eskel’s voice is hoarse with exhaustion. “Every time I close my eyes, I hear him screaming for me.”

Geralt tries not to picture it— Eskel bleeding on the ground as Jaskier was dragged away.

“I asked him once why he risked his life traveling with witchers when he could live a comfortable life as a court bard,” Eskel says. “He said he wasn’t risking his life traveling with us, because there’s no safer place than at a Witcher’s side.”

Despite his grief and fear, Geralt’s lips twitch. “Sounds like something he would say.”

“I proved him wrong. I couldn’t protect him.”

Geralt closes his eyes. “You still need to sleep. You haven’t slept in a week.”

“I can’t—“

“When we find Jaskier, you’re going to need to be in fighting condition. Rest.”

“What if he’s already—“

Geralt doesn’t know what to say, so he rolls over to pull Eskel close. Eskel sucks in a surprised breath. Geralt wraps an arm around the other Witcher’s waist and buries his face into the back of Eskel’s neck.

“Jaskier wouldn’t want you to torture yourself,” he says.

Eskel chuckles without humor. “Funny to hear that advice from you.”

“Jaskier isn’t here to give it to you himself, so I have to.”

Eskel is quiet for a moment. “You love him too, don’t you?”

Geralt just manages to stop himself from recoiling. “He’s my friend.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Eskel doesn’t sound accusatory, just curious.

Geralt has never been able to lie to Eskel. “Yes.”

“Thought you might,” Eskel says quietly. “How could you not?”

“You make him happy,” Geralt rushes to tell him. “You two— I’m not going to do anything to get between you. I wouldn’t.”

“I know, Wolf.” Eskel reaches up to take Geralt’s hand.

Geralt doesn’t reply. Long after Eskel falls asleep, he stares into the darkness, wondering what the hell he’s done.

They don’t talk about it again. The next morning, they thank the family for the use of their barn and continue west as fast as they can without risking their horses. They stop in every town they pass through to ask if anyone has seen a large group of men traveling with a blue-eyed, brown-haired young man. It’s not until they’re about two days’ ride from Lettenhove that they pass through a picturesque little town where the nervous innkeeper tells them that he turned away a group of men who were traveling with a young man who matched Jaskier’s description.

“Looked like trouble, every one of them,” he tells Geralt, eyeing the witchers in a way that suggests that he thinks they also look like trouble. 

“When was this?” Eskel asks.

“An hour ago, maybe two.”

Geralt and Eskel don’t bother with goodbyes as they run for their horses. There aren’t many travelers on the road in this weather; the roads have been clear of hoofprints and footprints for most of their journey. So when he sees a large group of hoofprints, Geralt feels a surge of hope for the first time in days. He and Eskel push Roach and Scorpion as fast as they can in these conditions, following the hoofprints. When the tracks veer off the path, they find a couple of trees just out of sight to tie Scorpion and Roach to and proceed on foot. They don’t exchange a single word; they don’t need to.

When he hears the sound of men’s voices and smells the smoke of a campfire, Geralt knows they’ve found who they’re looking for before the group even comes into view.

The mercenaries are camped in a clearing at the top of a bluff overlooking a frozen river. It’s a good camping spot, easily defensible. There are at least a half a dozen mercenaries sitting around a weak campfire that they’re barely managing to keep lit with the wind buffeting it. From the way they hold themselves, Geralt guesses that most of them are former soldiers. Each of them is armored and heavily armed. And sitting in the midst of them is Jaskier.

The bard looks unharmed, save for a fading bruise on his cheek, but his face has grown thinner since the last time Geralt saw him. He hasn’t been eating enough. The cloak he’s wearing is too light for the frigid air and he’s shivering, though it’s hard to tell if it’s from cold or from fear. He’s chewing on his lower lip, a nervous habit that he’s mostly grown out of. When the man sitting next to him stands up, Geralt doesn’t miss the way Jaskier flinches. Neither does Eskel, who growls low in his chest.

The man standing over Jaskier is an ugly-looking fucker with a scraggly beard and a cruel mouth. He sneers down at Jaskier. “You’ve barely touched your jerky, lordling. Not fine enough dining for you?”

 _Don’t say anything stupid, Jaskier,_ Geralt thinks. _Don’t say anything to make them want to hurt you._

Regrettably, Jaskier isn’t a mind reader. Equally regrettably, he’s never held his tongue in his life.

“I’ll admit, when I pictured my last meal, this wasn’t it.” Jaskier’s voice is too tired to carry his normal bite. “A nice roast pheasant would have been nice, or maybe a goose. I do like lamb, I’ll admit, though I always feel bad because of their cute, fuzzy little noses.”

“No need for this to be your last meal, boy, not so long as your family meets our demands.”

In the weak firelight, Jaskier’s eyes glitter. “I already told you, you donkey’s cock, that my family won’t pay a single coin for my safe return. Wherever you got your information, they were wrong. You’ve been wasting your time.”

“No reason for us not to gut you then, like that mutant?”

Jaskier’s mouth works and it occurs to Geralt that he probably thinks that Eskel is dead. The last he saw of his lover, he was bleeding out in the road. Next to him, Eskel makes a soft, broken noise.

“No, there isn’t.” Jaskier’s voice has lost all its bravado; Geralt can barely hear him over the wind.

The man kicks Jaskier in the stomach, sending him reeling backwards off the log he’s sitting on. Without thinking, Geralt starts forward, reaching for his blade. Only Eskel’s hand on his arm stops him.

“Not yet,” Eskel hisses. “They’re too close to Jaskier. He’ll be dead before you can get to him.”

He’s right. Geralt takes a deep breath and forces his jaw to unclench as the man hauls Jaskier up and shoves him onto the log. Jaskier hunches over, protecting his stomach with his arms. The man draws back his leg for another kick and Jaskier flinches.

“Don’t want to damage him too bad, Caspar,” one of the other mercenaries calls.

Caspar spits on the ground. “Don’t think the earl will mind if his brat has a cracked rib or two.” But he still turns away from Jaskier, whose shoulders slump with relief.

“We wait until they’re all asleep,” Eskel says in a low voice. “Then I’ll take care of the mercenaries and you get Jaskier.”

“You don’t want to get Jaskier? He thinks you’re dead.”

The look on Eskel’s face is the coldest Geralt’s ever seen it. “I’d like a rematch with them. That Caspar is the one who gutted me.”

Caspar isn’t going to walk away from this alive, Geralt decides.

It’s agony to sit there and wait while the group settles in for the night. There are eight mercenaries in total, including two sentries. Jaskier and six of his captors settle down around the fire, Jaskier only under a thin blanket, his wrists and ankles bound. He’s farthest from the fire, out of the warming glow of its light, and Geralt can see him shivering.

Geralt and Eskel wait and watch as the six mercenaries' heart rates slow and their breathing evens out. But not Jaskier. His heart rate is still slightly too fast, his breathing ragged. When he gives a harsh gasp, Geralt realizes he’s trying not to cry. Geralt clenches his fists so tight that his fingernails cut into his palms. If Jaskier has spent weeks thinking that Eskel died trying to defend him, he’s probably devastated.

“Come on.” Eskel’s voice is barely more than a growl. “Let’s finish this.”

They find the sentries first, eliminating both of them before either of them can so much as squeak. When they make their way towards the camp, the six mercenaries don’t stir. Eskel dispatches the two closest to him, slitting their throats in their sleep. The remaining four don’t stir as Geralt circles around the fire, keeping out of the glow of the campfire. When he reaches Jaskier, the scent of Jaskier’s fear sharpens until Geralt crouches down, close enough so his friend can see who it is standing over him. Jaskier’s expression flickers through terror, disbelief, hope, and then finally sorrow.

“Geralt.” His voice is so soft that it’s barely audible, even to Geralt. “I am so sorry. So, so fucking sorry. Eskel—”

Geralt presses his fingers to his own lips and nods to the other side of the fire, where Eskel is slitting the throat of a third mercenary. When Jaskier sees him, he lets out a shuddering breath and his shoulders begin to shake with silent tears.

Geralt cuts through the ropes around Jaskier’s wrists and ankles, then takes off his cloak and wraps it around the bard as he pulls Jaskier to his feet. Jaskier isn’t as fragile as he looks in his frilly doublets and lacy chemises. Geralt was shocked the first time he saw him shirtless at the breadth of his shoulders and the sheer amount of hair. But right now, he feels just as weak and insubstantial as everyone thinks he is— too thin, trembling, still smelling like days’ worth of fear. It makes Geralt want to forget the plan and rip every man in this clearing apart with his bare hands.

From somewhere behind Geralt, he hears the click of a bolt being loaded into a crossbow.

They missed a fucking sentry.

“Eskel, down!” Geralt bellows, not giving a damn about stealth, because if there’s an archer, he’s going to go for the witcher standing over his fellows with a sword. Eskel hits the ground as an arrow sails through the air right where his head just was and the three surviving mercenaries leap to their feet, shouting and groping for their weapons.

“Eskel!” Jaskier’s voice is thin with horror as Geralt shoves Jaskier behind him, trying to block him from the archer and the mercenaries at the same time. Geralt scans the trees, searching for the archer. It takes him a moment before he sees a dark shape standing at the outskirts of the camp.

“Jaskier, I need you to run,” he tells the bard.

“I’m not leaving you.”

“Yes, you are.” Geralt gives Jaskier a little shove. “Scorpion and Roach are a half mile north of here. Find them.”

“Ah yes, with my compass and my fucking night vision, Geralt!”

Geralt grits his teeth. “Then just hide behind a fucking tree until it’s over.”

Another arrow comes flying at them. Geralt just has time to yank Jaskier out of the way.

“Please go,” Geralt says. “So I can take out the archer and help Eskel.”

Jaskier hesitates, then nods and turns to run. Geralt turns on the archer just as he fires another arrow. Geralt casts a Quen shield and makes his way towards the archer, letting his lips curl in an ugly smile as arrow after arrow bounces off the shield. As Geralt closes the gap between them, the archer drops his crossbow and turns to run.

He doesn’t get far.

Geralt has barely pulled his sword from the man’s belly when he hears an all-too-familiar cry. He turns to see two of the remaining mercenaries dead at Eskel’s feet. The third, the one called Caspar, is standing with his back to the cliff’s edge, a knife at Jaskier’s throat. With a jolt of horror, Geralt realizes it’s the silver dagger he gifted Jaskier in Oxenfurt.

“Put down your weapons, witchers,” Caspar growls. “Or I’m going to gut him.”

Jaskier is visibly trying to keep a brave face, but Geralt can see the way his Adam’s apple bobs and his mouth trembles.

“And then what?” Eskel’s voice is deadly calm, at odds with the cold fury on his face. “You let him live if we surrender?”

“Depends on what the Earl de Lettenhove is willing to pay for his brat’s safe return.” Caspar’s lip curls. 

“You harm him, you won’t walk away.”

“I already gutted you once, witcher. You think I won’t be able to do it again?”

The barely-contained terror in Jaskier’s expression morphs into fury. Shit, Geralt knows that look. That’s the look Jaskier gets right before he’s about to start a fight with a mouthy drunk in a tavern. Geralt takes a step forward.

“Don’t think I don’t see you, Butcher,” Caspar snaps. “I will kill him.”

Geralt pauses mid-stride.

Caspar spits on the ground. “Here’s what’s going to happen, you filthy mutants. I’m going to take the boy and—”

Jaskier drives all his weight back into his captor’s chest. Caspar stumbles backwards, caught off guard by the surprise attack. He drops the knife, but keeps his fist knotted in Jaskier’s doublet. Geralt and Eskel both start towards them, but they’re too late to stop Caspar and Jaskier from both plunging over the edge of the cliff.

“Jaskier!” Eskel roars.

Geralt doesn’t shout. His lungs can’t draw in enough air to form words. Instead, he sprints to the edge of the cliff, where he sees a hole in the icy river below where Jaskier and Caspar fell through. Behind him, he hears Eskel shout his name, but he only hesitates long enough to drop his swords. He dives after them.

The water is an icy slap as he hits it. Immediately, he regrets not taking the time to shuck off his armor. It weighs him down more than he can afford. But there’s nothing to be done for it now, so he swims as fast as he can. He can see two limp forms sinking into the murky depths. Jaskier is closest to him, his doublet billowing around him. Geralt dives for him.

Jaskier’s eyes are closed, his face pale and still when Geralt’s arms close around him. Only the faint thread of his heartbeat gives Geralt hope. The surface seems very far away, but Geralt forces himself to kick upwards. His armor weighs him down and Jaskier is a dead weight in his arms, his head lolling backwards.

 _Stay alive,_ Geralt tells him silently. _For another minute, just stay alive._

When he makes it to the surface, he finds a sheet of solid ice waiting. Geralt beats his fist against it, but he can’t summon the strength to punch through it. The angle is wrong and the drag of his armor weakens his blows. In his arms, Jaskier’s heartbeat is slowing down. If they made it all this way, if they trudged through all of Kaedwen and Redania to find him, only for Jaskier to drown in his arms…

A fist slams through the ice and catches Geralt by the front of his armor, dragging him and Jaskier to the surface. The next thing Geralt knows, he’s flat on his back on the riverbank and Eskel’s voice is breaking as he says, “Come on, songbird, fucking breathe.”

And then, mercifully, a wheeze and the sound of Jaskier emptying the contents of his stomach on the ground.

Geralt rolls on his side to see Eskel holding Jaskier while he vomits, rubbing his back in slow, comforting circles. Jaskier is shaking, the bright blue doublet he’s wearing turned nearly black by the water. Through his retching, he keeps murmuring, “Eskel, Eskel, _fuck_ , Eskel.”

“It’s okay.” Eskel’s voice is low and painfully gentle. “I’m here.”

“Thought you were—”

“I’m not. I’m fine. It was barely a scratch.”

That earns him a weak chuckle. It’s the most beautiful sound Geralt has ever heard. “Gods, you sound like fucking Geralt.”

A soft, helpless smile crosses Eskel’s face. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You really shouldn’t.” Jaskier looks around and his eyes meet Geralt’s. “Thank you.”

Geralt’s teeth are chattering. “Next time you decide to finally defend yourself, make sure you’re not standing next to a fucking cliff.”

Jaskier lets out a breathy laugh. “‘Learn how to throw a punch, Jaskier.’ ‘You’re holding that knife wrong, Jaskier.’ ‘Stop starting fights if you can’t finish them, Jaskier.’ And then when I finally defend myself, you’re a critic.” By the time he finishes his speech, he’s shivering so hard that his words are barely audible.

Eskel gathers Jaskier against his chest. “Come on, we need to get you both somewhere warm.”

***

Geralt knew that something was wrong even before he reached the keep. He’d been able to smell the blood, burnt flesh, and smoke for miles. So when he reached Kaer Morhen and found half of it collapsed, the sight shouldn’t have punched him in the gut like it did. He sat on the back of his newest Roach— a placid mare with none of the personality of his last Roach, but there was nothing to be done about it— and tried to remind himself to breathe. To think.

Kaer Morhen was always noisy, especially in the winter when most of the witchers returned from the Path. Geralt had cut it close this year, waiting until the last possible minute to decide to make the trip. He should have found all his brother witchers waiting for him.

Instead, there was only silence.

A figure emerged from the front door and started towards them. The sun was low in the sky, but Geralt still recognized him as Eskel. It was another punch in the gut. This was the third winter since Geralt had ended his and Eskel’s relationship, and it still hurt to see him every year.

“Wolf.” Eskel’s voice was heavy. He looked more exhausted than Geralt had ever seen him.

Geralt jumped down from Roach’s back to face him. “What happened?”

“A group of peasants from down the mountain,” Eskel said. “They got it in their head that a keep full of witchers living near them were a threat to their women and children. Lambert and I got here a week ago and found the place destroyed.”

It must have been a small army of peasants, to successfully attack so many witchers. Geralt swallowed. “Any survivors?”

He already knew the answer. He should have been able to hear children’s voices, the clang of swords, Varin shouting insults.

“Just Vesemir. He was hurt bad, but he’ll survive. Everyone else—” Eskel took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “They’re all dead, Geralt. Rennes, Varin, Gweld, Clovis. All the little ones. Every single one of them, gone. We finished burning the bodies yesterday. There was nothing else we could do for them.”

And for the first time in years, Geralt opened his arms and let Eskel fall into them while his friend wept into his shoulder.

***

The closest inn is the one where Geralt and Eskel stopped earlier, a good hour’s ride away. By the time they get there, Jaskier has stopped shivering and has fallen silent. Eskel holds him to his chest, trying to get him to stay awake, but Jaskier’s eyes are glassy and unfocused. Geralt focuses on the steady thrum of Jaskier’s heartbeat as he rides. It distracts him from the tremors wracking his own limbs.

“We need a room with a fireplace,” Eskel tells the innkeeper as he and Geralt stumble through the door with Jaskier in between them.

The innkeeper’s eyes dart between them. “We don’t have…”

Eskel slams his hand down on the counter, looming over the man. His face twists into a snarl. “A room with a fucking fireplace!”

The innkeeper flinches back.

Eskel takes a deep breath and retreats a step, the pleasant facade sliding back into place. “Please. My companions took a tumble into the river. They need to warm up.”

The innkeeper hesitates, then holds out a room key with a shaking hand. “No trouble, or I call the guard. Top floor, first door on the right.”

Geralt dearly wants to tell him to fuck off, but instead he snatches the key out of the innkeeper’s hand and says, “We’ll need a bath as well, and three plates of food.”

“I don’t…”

Geralt levels the man with a scowl. Jaskier has done this for him countless times when Geralt was too injured or strung out on potions to negotiate for himself. He’s dealt with countless innkeepers, aldermen, and healers, stopped them from turning Geralt away or stiffing him on the coin. The least Geralt can do for Jaskier now is make sure he has a warm place to sleep and a full belly.

The innkeeper falters. “Right away.”

Jaskier’s legs are trembling violently underneath him, so Eskel picks him up and bears him up the steps. Geralt follows, trying to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. He’s never been this fucking cold in his life, not a single one of the nights he’s had to sleep outside. He can’t feel his fingers or toes and his face is numb.

The room is probably the best the inn has to offer, with a large bed, a decent sized tub, and a fireplace. Geralt doesn’t even want to know how much coin this will cost them, but that’s a problem for tomorrow. Eskel deposits Jaskier on the bed and turns to light the fireplace with Igni.

Geralt has never cared about modesty with either Eskel or Jaskier, but he still hesitates for a moment before he starts to peel off his wet armor and clothing. He lets them fall to the floor in a heap at his feet. On the bed, Eskel is gently pulling off Jaskier’s doublet and chemise, revealing an abdomen mottled with purple and yellow bruising. Geralt has to remind himself that the men who did this are already dead and there’s no use in flying into a rage.

Eskel jerks a blanket off the bed and wraps it around Jaskier. “You two keep each other warm. I’m going to go make sure the bath and food actually make their way up here.”

Geralt nods and scoops Jaskier off the bed, settling down in front of the fire. Eskel drapes a second blanket over his shoulder and Geralt cocoons both himself and the bard. Jaskier presses himself against Geralt, still shivering. There’s a lot of bare skin pressed against Geralt’s naked body and he’s grateful that he’s too cold to have any kind of physical reaction. Jaskier needs warmth and safety right now.

As Jaskier snuggles closer, Geralt closes his eyes and tightens his grip on the bard. The heat of the flames beats on his face and he tries to focus on that warmth rather than the feeling of Jaskier’s ass nestled in his lap. Behind him, he’s vaguely aware of the murmur of voices and the sloshing off the tub being filled.

Jaskier turns his head, pressing his cheek against Geralt’s chest. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

It’s the first word he’s said in nearly an hour. At the sound of his voice, Geralt lets out a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry. I should have gone with you to Ard Carraigh.”

“Not your fault.” Jaskier laughs without any humor. “I’m the one who couldn’t make it ten miles on my own without getting kidnapped.”

“Not all that surprising.” Geralt realizes that he’s stroking a hand up and down Jaskier’s back and freezes.

Jaskier leans into the touch. “Keep doing that. It feels nice.”

Geralt exhales shakily and resumes stroking. Jaskier’s skin is starting to warm under his touch, losing the stiffness of frozen flesh. “You’re okay. That’s all that matters.”

“Thanks to you and Eskel.”

“You kept yourself alive until we got to you.”

“Barely.” Jaskier presses closer to Geralt. “I thought I was going to die, Geralt. We were going to arrive in Lettenhove, my father was going to laugh in their faces when they asked for a ransom, and they were going to kill me. I was fucking terrified.”

Geralt tightens his grip on Jaskier. “It’s over.”

Jaskier shudders. “Might take me a little time to believe that.”

“I’ll be here until you do.”

Jaskier makes a small sound and turns, wrapping his arms around Geralt and burying his face in Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt holds him close, trying to offer comfort in the only way he knows how. In turn, he lets himself take comfort in the steady thump of Jaskier’s heartbeat and his slow, even breathing. The bard is no longer shivering, his body completely limp and trusting against Geralt’s. Geralt is so focused on Jaskier that he doesn’t notice Eskel approaching until the other witcher is standing over them, holding two plates of food.

Geralt meets Eskel’s eyes and sees that his friend is watching them with a carefully neutral expression. Geralt has mostly managed to put his confession in the barn out of his mind. After all, Eskel hasn’t brought it up. They were both so exhausted that Geralt almost managed to convince himself that his friend doesn’t remember the conversation at all. But he’s sure that his love for Jaskier is written all over his features right now.

Eskel doesn’t comment. Instead, he puts the plates of food down in front of them, then sits down next to them with his own plate balanced in his lap. “Eat slowly, songbird, and then you should get into the bath.”

Jaskier and Eskel eat in silence, staring into the crackling fireplace. The room is warming up quickly and it’s starting to grow uncomfortably warm with Jaskier in his lap and blankets wrapped around them, but Geralt still keeps his arms around Jaskier. When Eskel comes to scoop Jaskier out of his arms, Geralt instinctively tightens his grip on the bard, bristling.

Eskel’s expression softens. “Just going to put him in the bath, Wolf. It’s okay.”

Jaskier lets out a little laugh. “I can walk, my love.”

“You can. But you don’t have to.” As Eskel lifts Jaskier into the air, the blankets fall away and Geralt is treated to a full view of Jaskier’s incredibly pretty ass. Geralt feels a prickle of heat in his gut and he turns to his food, needing the distraction. He makes quick work of the potatoes and pork on his plate, trying not to listen to the soft murmuring behind him. Whatever conversation is happening between Eskel and Jaskier should stay between them. It’s not for Geralt’s ears.

But the room isn’t large enough to hide their voices from his witcher hearing.

“I thought you were dead,” he hears Jaskier murmur. “I thought I watched you bleed out.”

Eskel is quiet for a long moment. “You needed me to stay alive, songbird. So I stayed alive.”

Geralt closes his eyes as he hears the familiar sounds of kissing. Unable to stop himself, he finds himself glancing over his shoulder to see Eskel kneeling next to the tub, hands cradling Jaskier’s face while they kiss. They look lovely together and Geralt’s insides twist up into a complicated mixture of jealousy and longing and lust. The problem is, he’s not even sure which one of them he’s jealous of or which one he wants.

Geralt forces himself to turn away. He’s hyper-aware of every sound behind him as Jaskier scrubs himself clean. He wonders if Eskel is helping Jaskier, washing his hair the way Jaskier has washed Geralt’s so many times before. He wonders where Eskel is touching him, if he’s taking the time to let his fingers smooth over Jaskier’s soft, warm skin. He wonders if Jaskier is enjoying the gentle caress of calloused hands.

He’s very glad there’s a blanket hiding his body. He also hopes that Eskel is distracted enough by tending to Jaskier that he won’t be able to smell Geralt’s arousal.

Once Eskel bundles Jaskier out of the bath into bed, Geralt heats the water with Igni and bathes himself perfunctorily. Feeling has returned to his fingers and toes and his limbs have lost their stiffness. The water feels incredible and he’d like to stay in this tub all night, but Eskel needs to bathe too. Once he clambers out of the tub, Eskel frowns at him.

“You nearly froze too,” Eskel reminds him. “You can take your time.”

“Wasn’t as bad for me.” Geralt goes to his pack to pull on a pair of smallclothes and a shirt. He’s surprised by the sudden spike of musky arousal behind him. When he glances over his shoulder, he catches Eskel looking away, cheeks flushing. He’s not sure to do with that, so he dresses quickly and slips into bed next to Jaskier.

“We’re both fine.” Jaskier nuzzles at Eskel’s throat. “Go take your bath, love.”

Eskel’s lips twitch. He’s still not looking at Geralt. “You telling me I smell?”

“You smell like the dashing hero who just rode to my rescue. And horses and onions.”

Geralt can’t help but snort. “Thought I was the one who smelled like onion.”

“There’s plenty of onion smell to go around, apparently.” Jaskier gives Eskel a little push. “You’ve already taken care of us. Go take care of yourself.”

Eskel brushes a kiss over Jaskier’s head. “You two keep each other warm until I get back.”

“We’re both plenty warm,” Geralt grumbles, but Jaskier is already wriggling into his arms. The feeling of a warm, safe bard in his arms wipes away any complaints.

Eskel looks down at them with an odd expression on his face. In the firelight, his eyes look like twin flames. “Comfortable?” he asks in a low, raspy voice.

Geralt manages to nod. “Go take your bath, Esk. I’ve kept this idiot warm enough times on the road when he doesn’t bring a heavy enough cloak.”

Jaskier doesn’t protest, just makes a disgruntled noise and presses closer. Geralt tucks his nose into Jaskier’s hair and closes his eyes. He hears a splashing noise and looks over in time to see Eskel stepping into the tub. He has a new scar— a long, thin line bisecting his belly. It’s a nasty wound; the healer he was taken to must have been truly talented. Geralt tries not to picture Eskel bleeding out in the dirt, desperately trying to hold his own guts in. He could have lost Jaskier and Eskel and he wouldn’t have known until the spring. He holds Jaskier a little tighter at that thought.

He doesn’t expect to fall asleep that night, but he dozes off before Eskel even gets out of the tub.

When he wakes, the fire has burned down to cinders and Eskel is on the other side of Jaskier. The bard is tucked between the two witchers, his head pillowed on Geralt’s chest and his breathing deep and even. Eskel has an arm wrapped around both Jaskier and Geralt, his hand resting on Geralt’s back, and his nose pressed into Jaskier’s hair. Geralt thinks that he’s asleep too until he opens his eyes.

Their gazes meet overtop the sleeping bard’s head and Eskel’s lips curl into a soft smile. Geralt knows they’re both thinking the same thing— they got their bard back. Jaskier is safe. Everything is fine. It just might take them both a bit of time to acclimate to the idea, after weeks of frantic searching.

Geralt drifts back to sleep with the feeling of Eskel’s callused hands tracing lines over the skin of his back and Jaskier’s breath warm and even against his throat.

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took the time to leave kudos and comments on the last chapter. I appreciate all of you!
> 
> And a big thanks to teamfreehoodies for betaing!

Jaskier is back to his usual self by the next morning, if the way Geralt is woken by a burst of chatter is any indication. “I’m afraid this doublet is a loss, my love. You really can’t get silk wet. No, get that guilty expression off your face. Nothing short of a mage could have saved it.”

Geralt doesn’t open his eyes. “Your own damn fault for wearing silk in winter.”

“Geralt, you’re up!” The mattress sinks and he opens his eyes to see Jaskier sitting there, wearing nothing but a chemise and smallclothes. He’s still too thin, but he looks happy and bright-eyed. “Excellent, I was just talking to Eskel…”

“Hm. Was wondering why I already had a headache.”

“Quiet, you. You need to be nice to me for at least a day after any near-death experience. It’s part of the deal.”

“I made no deal.”

Jaskier waves a dismissive hand at him. “Kaer Morhen is going to be unreachable at this point in the winter.”

With a pang, Geralt thinks of Lambert and Vesemir alone in the keep, both unsure of whether Eskel and Geralt are still alive. Geralt left a note for Lambert in the village at the base of the mountain, but the younger witcher may have already been at the keep by then. He may not get the letter until spring.

“And I won’t have the two of you wandering the Continent all winter,” Jaskier says. “There will be no contracts and without contracts, no coin. Come to Oxenfurt with me.”

Geralt blinks at him. “What would we do in Oxenfurt?”

“I have faculty lodgings for the winter,” Jaskier says. “They’re not much, but there are two bedrooms. And you could do whatever you like. Learn a new hobby, find a lovely lady or a handsome lad to woo, maybe take some classes.”

Geralt tries to imagine himself sitting at a desk in Oxenfurt, surrounded by terrified twelve year olds. The thought almost makes him laugh.

“Geralt, what’s the alternative?” Eskel asks in a tired voice. “Jaskier is right. There’s not enough work to keep us fed over the winter.”

It makes sense for Eskel to go to Oxenfurt, Geralt wants to say. Eskel will love the university. In another life, Geralt can see him as a scholar, bent over a dusty old tome with his brow furrowed in concentration. Eskel can spend the winter in comfort with Jaskier, making love in a warm bed and staying up late discussing literature and philosophy. Geralt has no place in the tableau.

“Geralt, please.” Jaskier looks at him pleadingly. “You can’t go back to Kaer Morhen because you saved my life. I couldn’t live with myself if I let you go hungry this winter.”

Geralt frowns. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“It’s not a matter of owing. You’re my best friend. You came to my aid, now let me come to yours.”

Geralt’s eyes meet Eskel’s. The other witcher’s face is curiously neutral. “What do you think?”

“Don’t think we have many other options, Wolf.” Eskel loops an arm around Jaskier’s waist. “And I, for one, don’t want to let Jaskier out of my sight for a while.”

Jaskier leans his head against Eskel’s shoulder. “Nor I you.”

The lovers are quiet for a moment, their heads bent close together, and Geralt feels like he’s intruding. Just when he’s about to make his excuses, Eskel says, “Come with us, Wolf. There’s no sense in you wandering the Continent in the snow when you have a safe place to go.”

Geralt cannot resist both of them giving him sad eyes, so he has no choice but to say, “Fine.”

***

Geralt knew that the bard wanted to fuck him about five minutes after meeting him, because Jaskier was about as subtle as being repeatedly bludgeoned over the head with a mace. That first night after they escaped from Filavandrel and his elves by the skin of their teeth, Jaskier looked at him across the campfire with big blue eyes.

“Thank you, for earlier,” the boy said.

Geralt just grunted in response.

“You saved my life.”

“Didn’t do shit.”

“You tried to bargain for my life when most men would have been begging for their own. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

“You can stop singing that damn coin song, for one.”

“That song is going to make you famous, witcher, mark my words.” Jaskier’s tongue darted over his lower lip. He looked painfully young in the firelight, with his baby face and gangly awkwardness of youth. “If there was something I could do for you…”

“There’s not.”

“But—”

“I’m not going to fuck you, bard.”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped. “I wasn’t— I’m not—”

“And I’m not interested in you fucking me, either.”

Jaskier made an offended noise. “And whyever not?”

“You’re too young for me.”

“I’m eighteen!”

“Too young for me. You can travel with me, so long as you stop making calf eyes and talking about repaying me. And when you pleasure yourself later, go far enough away from camp that I won’t have to listen to it.”

Jaskier looked around the darkened woods with wide eyes. “I might get eaten by a bear.”

“Hm, no bears around here.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

“They all got eaten by the wyverns.”

“Is that supposed to be _funny_?”

To his credit, Jaskier never made a pass at Geralt again, even though Geralt knew he wanted to. And that was the end of it, until Geralt went and lost his godsdamned mind.

***

“There must be some mistake,” Jaskier says, standing in the doorway to his faculty lodging in Oxenfurt. “I specifically requested one of the larger lodgings this year.”

Geralt only grunts in response. The room in front of them— because it is a room, not the full-sized apartment he was promised— is simple, but comfortably furnished. There’s a small sitting area with a hearth, a table, and some chairs. The large window offers a picturesque view of the skyline. The bed is a large, comfortable-looking one with what appears to be a real goose down mattress. The only problem is that there’s only one bed.

Geralt isn’t sure what deity he pissed off in another life, but they must be vengeful, because the thought of having to share a bed with both Eskel and Jaskier all winter is enough to make his blood run cold. He won’t be able to stay here. He’ll have to find cheap lodgings elsewhere or leave the city entirely. Possibly the Continent.

“Don’t worry, I’ll fix this.” With a huff, Jaskier drops his bags on the ground. “This is outrageous! I won the Oxenfurt Music Festival. The Dean _begged_ me to come back to teach this year. That should count for something!”

He stalks out in a high dudgeon and Eskel and Geralt are left facing each other.

“It’s a nice bed,” Eskel says mildly.

“Hm.”

“Big.”

“Not big enough to share with Jaskier. He kicks.”

Eskel snorts. “He does have surprisingly strong legs. I think he must have been a mule in another life.”

“That’s beautiful,” Geralt deadpans. “You should write a poem about it.”

“I’ll leave the poem writing to Jaskier.” Eskel goes to put his things down on the bed. “I’m glad you’re here, Wolf.”

“Didn’t have anywhere else to go.” Geralt shrugs.

“I’m still glad you’re here.”

When Jaskier returns several minutes later, he’s red faced and clearly flustered. “That _bastard_ Valdo Marx somehow managed to finagle his way into getting the last available two-bedroom apartment. Money must have changed hands, because this is his first year teaching here. He doesn’t even have any papers published. He’s a dabbler at best, with such poor understanding of the craft that he couldn’t hope to pass it on to the next generation of—”

“Songbird, breathe.” Eskel puts his hands on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Neither Geralt nor I are upset. We’ll make this work.”

In unison, all three men look at the bed. It is a decent-sized bed. Two people would be comfortable in it.

Geralt swallows. “I can find somewhere else. There’s probably a boarding house where I can get a room for cheap.”

“Nonsense. I won’t have you wasting your coin.” Jaskier shakes his head. “It will be fine. There’s plenty of room to stretch out in that bed.”

“I don’t mind leaving.”

“I don’t want you to leave, Geralt.” The scent of not-quite-fear— anxiety— seeps from Jaskier and when Geralt looks at his friend, he sees that Jaskier’s eyes are wide. “I told you I would make sure you had somewhere safe to stay this winter, and I intend on following through with that.”

Geralt sighs. “Fine, but if you kick me, I will make you sleep on the floor.”

“You will do no such thing. Not in my own lodgings. Eskel would never allow it.”

Eskel kisses him on the back of his head. “Depends on how much you kick.”

“You really can’t trust anyone these days.” Jaskier waves them off with a disdainful huff.

At least the faculty lodgings are conveniently located. There’s a bathhouse across the way, which Geralt visits as soon as he gets Roach settled in the stables and his things are put away. Afterwards, he takes a brief stroll, giving him time to get acquainted with the area and clear his head before he returns to that too-small room. There are several decent-looking taverns in the area. Bands of students, faculty, and townsfolk roam the sidewalks. Oxenfurt is a much more pleasant city than Novigrad or Vizima and Geralt can almost understand why Jaskier is so crazy about it.

When he arrives back at Jaskier’s lodgings, he’s surprised to hear female voices. When he pushes open the door, there are three young women sitting at the table with Eskel and Jaskier. They all turn to look at Geralt when he steps inside. Two of the women are about Jaskier’s age, one with red hair and a freckled face and the other with long blond hair. The third woman is younger, maybe eighteen, wearing the uniform of a Oxenfurt student. She has curly blond hair and enormous blue eyes.

“Another witcher, Jask?” the redhead asks. “You’re going to start a scandal if you’re not careful.” She doesn’t sound like she would object to a scandal.

“Oh, please, like I need help starting scandals.” Despite the fact that it’s still mid-afternoon, there’s an empty bottle of wine on the table and another one that’s nearly there. From the pinkness of his cheeks, Jaskier looks like he’s already had a glass or three. “Geralt, you haven’t met my friends, have you?”

“Don’t think so,” Geralt says.

“This is Shani, a medical student here at Oxenfurt and a dear friend of mine from my school days.” Jaskier nods to the redhead, then to the older of the two blondes. “And this is Priscilla, who you may remember for her performance of the Oxenfurt Music Festival. She came in second.”

“And I came in first in Novigrad, Jask.” Priscilla smiles sweetly. “Next year, I’ll get Oxenfurt too.”

“Just try, darling. And this is Little Eye.”

“Don’t call me that.” The Oxenfurt student rolls her eyes. “It stopped being cute when I was ten.”

“False,” Jaskier says. “Alright, since we’re being proper, this is Essi Daven. She’s related to me on my mother’s side somehow—”

“Fifth cousins twice removed,” Essi says helpfully.

“—And I’ve known her since she was still painting the walls with her diapers.”

“Do you really need to bring that up?”

“And this is the witcher I’ve told you all about.” Jaskier gestures expansively. “Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, defender of innocent bards, and my dearest friend.”

Shani scrunches up her nose. “I thought I was your dearest friend.”

“When you save me from a watery grave and nearly freeze to death doing it, you can reclaim the title, darling.”

Geralt hates when Jaskier does that— turns a near-death experience into a pithy one-liner that he can use to entertain a crowd. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, but it still sets Geralt’s teeth on edge how casually Jaskier can treat his own safety. The memory of him shaking with silent sobs when he saw Eskel was still alive, the shocked terror on his face right before he fell off the cliff, how cold and still he was in Geralt’s arms is all too fresh. From the way Eskel grimaces, Geralt imagines he’s thinking the same thing.

“Just for that, don’t come to me when you finally get some kind of pox on your prick,” Shani says archly.

Geralt likes her immediately.

While Jaskier makes the requisite noises of outrage, Eskel gestures to Geralt. “Come on, Wolf, take a seat and have some wine.”

“No chairs left.” There are only four chairs at the table; Priscilla and Shani are squeezed into one while Eskel, Jaskier, and Essi occupy the others.

Eskel scoops a still-spluttering Jaskier onto his lap, leaving his chair vacated. Jaskier’s stream of indignant babbling abruptly cuts off. “Now there is.”

Geralt is surprised that Eskel would be so blatant about showing affection in front of virtual strangers, but Essi, Priscilla, and Shani only laugh at the shocked look on Jaskier’s face.

“Esk, I love when you render Jaskier speechless,” Priscilla says fondly.

“It’s not an easy feat,” Essi agrees.

Geralt goes to sit in the chair recently vacated by Jaskier. It’s still warm from the bard’s body and carries the scent of his lavender soap and the pomade he uses in his hair. Geralt ignores the scent and goes to pour himself a cup of wine. He drinks quietly and listens as Jaskier chatters happily with his friends, catching up on the events of the last few months. Through listening to them talk, Geralt gathers that Eskel met Priscilla and Shani during the Jaskier’s music festival circuit the year before; they both treat him like an old friend.

Geralt’s eyes keep being drawn back to Eskel and Jaskier. Jaskier is settled comfortably in Eskel’s lap, looking like he belongs there. One of Eskel’s hands rests on Jaskier’s lower back while he watches the bard gesticulate with an expression of fond amusement. When Jaskier dissolves into laughter at something Shani says, it’s only Eskel’s hand on his back that stops him from toppling right out of his chair. Geralt has another one of those odd moments where he both wants to be the one with Jaskier in his lap and the one sitting in Eskel’s lap.

He’s going to need to find a brothel tomorrow, he decides. Maybe several brothels.

Firmly, Geralt tells himself to get a grip. He’s a witcher. He’s seen untold horrors over the years. He can survive a winter in close quarters with Jaskier and Eskel.

***

The first winter after the debut of “Toss a Coin” and the subsequent months of having to listen to that damn song in every tavern he stopped in, Geralt was eager for the peace of Kaer Morhen. Winters since the sacking were quieter and lonelier, but at least he wouldn’t have to deal with any ridiculous singing or a bard following him everywhere, asking ludicrous questions, like if the full moon affected witchers or if it were true that witchers had horns they had to file down. He didn’t want to hear a damn word about Jaskier or his songs all winter.

He arrived at the keep after nightfall and pushed through the front doors to hear the opening notes of a familiar song, _“When a humble bard graced a ride-along…”_

Geralt wondered if he could get down the mountain in the dark. The attempt would probably kill him, but it might be worth it.

Eskel, Lambert, and Coën were all grinning at him as they sang, their voices varying levels of off-key. At the head of the table, Vesemir wasn’t singing, but smiling. Geralt didn’t move from the doorway the entire time they were singing, only going to sit down next to Eskel when the last _“friend of humanity….”_ died away.

“We hear you’re famous, Wolf,” Eskel said, clapping him on the back.

Geralt snorted. “Hardly. That song’s all bullshit.”

“Course it is.” Eskel shrugged. “All good ballads are.”

“Only you would be this grumpy about getting a song written about you.” Lambert rolled his eyes. “Must be hard, O White Wolf.”

“Getting coins tossed at my head.” But even as he said it, Geralt knew it was a ridiculous complaint.

The others, even Vesemir, roared with laughter at that.

Eskel reached out to grip Geralt’s arm. The contact only caused a small pang in Geralt’s chest. “Tell you what, next time a bard wants to write a song about you, send them my way, okay?”

Grumbling, Geralt stood to go grab himself an ale. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

***

Geralt wakes to the feeling of Jaskier’s breath tickling the back of his neck and an elbow poking into his lower back. He lies still, eyes still closed. One of them— Eskel, he thinks— gives a little snort in his sleep and Geralt finds his lips curling into a smile. He opens his eyes to find the room gray with milky early morning light. When he glances over his shoulder, he sees Eskel and Jaskier cuddled together, Jaskier’s back pressed against Eskel’s broad chest. One of Eskel’s legs is thrown over Jaskier and he has his face buried into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. Yet again, Geralt is struck by how well the two of them fit together and he feels that desperate ache of want in his gut again.

He slips out of bed, grabs his swords, and heads down to the courtyard behind the faculty lodgings. Just because he’s spending his winter in relative comfort doesn’t mean he can let himself get complacent about training. This early in the morning, the streets of Oxenfurt are quiet and only a few lights are on in the windows of the buildings around him. Geralt goes through his normal routine, absorbed in the familiar motions. Jaskier and Eskel are the last things on his mind.

“You know, you’re going to give some poor chambermaid a terrible fright, swinging your sword around like that.”

Geralt looks around to see Jaskier leaning in the doorway, wrapped up in Eskel’s coat. It’s too broad for him in the shoulders and too long in the arms. His hair is rumpled and his cheek creased from the pillow. Early morning Jaskier is one of Geralt’s favorite Jaskiers, not that he could ever tell the bard that.

“Need to train,” Geralt says simply.

“You’re right. God forbid the students decide to rise up and you need to defend me from a coup.”

Geralt notices that Jaskier is holding the silver knife Geralt gave him, turning it over in his hands. He’s known the chattermouth bard long enough that he knows when Jaskier isn’t saying something that he wants to say. Geralt goes back to his drills, giving Jaskier time to gather his thoughts.

When Jaskier finally speaks, his voice is forcibly cheerful. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like you to give another crack at teaching me how to use this thing.” When Geralt turns to him, he smiles and holds up his hand. “I know what you’re going to say, Geralt. ‘I’ve been trying to teach you how to defend yourself for eight years, Jaskier.’ ‘Would have been nice if you had asked before you got kidnapped, Jaskier.’ ‘You should have—’”

“I wasn’t going to say any of that.” Geralt frowns at him. Does Jaskier really think him so callous. “Is this about what happened?”

That terrible, forced smile falls off Jaskier’s face. “Of course it is. I spent weeks thinking that Eskel had died because of me, that he’d bled out alone in a ditch.”

“He doesn’t blame you.”

“Of course he doesn’t, because Eskel is a godsdamn saint and I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to figure out what I did to deserve him.” Jaskier looks down at the knife in his hands. “I didn’t even have this in reach when those men grabbed me, Geralt. It was in my bag.”

“Good,” Geralt says. “If Caspar nearly broke your ribs for mouthing off, what do you think he would have done if you fought back?”

Jaskier shudders. “I’m trying not to think about that.”

“He would have killed you. Or at least hurt you badly. There were too many of them, Jask. I could have taught you how to be the best swordsman on the Continent, and you wouldn’t have been able to take all of them on.”

“I just don’t want to be a burden, Geralt,” Jaskier says quietly. “And I never want you or Eskel to get hurt defending me ever again.”

“Can’t promise that won’t happen again,” Geralt says, because he knows he would throw himself between Jaskier and any danger without question and that Eskel would do the same. “But you’re not a burden.”

Jaskier doesn’t answer, only swallows thickly.

It occurs to Geralt that this is the first time he’s been alone with Jaskier in days. With them sharing such close quarters with Eskel, it’s unlikely they’ll be alone together anytime soon. Carefully, he says, “You never told me that you were a viscount. Or that you were part-elf.”

Jaskier’s expression goes strangely neutral. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It doesn’t,” Geralt says quickly, because it doesn’t. Jaskier could be a half-centaur prince for all he cares. “I was just surprised.”

Jaskier starts fiddling with the knife again, looking at it instead of at Geralt. “When I first left Oxenfurt, it didn’t seem like good practice to tell just anyone that I was nobility. That’s how… well, that’s how you get kidnapped and held for ransom. And after I knew you well enough to know you weren’t going to hold me hostage, well, I never got the impression you really wanted to hear about my past.”

Geralt can feel the hot flush of shame creeping up his cheeks, because his friend isn’t wrong. There was a time when any amount of talking from the bard was too much. How many times had Geralt told Jaskier to shut the fuck up, then tuned out every word he said when Jaskier failed to shut the fuck up? Jaskier could have told him that he was the Emperor of Nilfgaard, and it probably would have gone in one ear and out the other.

“And then I got disowned when I was twenty, and it didn’t really matter anymore.” Jaskier shrugs.

“Eskel said you got disowned because of the company you kept.”

“Among other reasons.” Jaskier looks up and smiles when he sees the look on Geralt’s face. “It wasn’t just because of you, Geralt, so get that look off your face. You aren’t actually at fault for all the wrongs that happen in the world. It didn’t help that I was going around singing love songs about a witcher, but my father had been itching to disown me for years.”

 _Love songs._ But Jaskier doesn’t seem to realize what he just said, so Geralt only asks, “Why?”

“Well, first off, as I got older, it became increasingly clear that I don’t look a thing like my mother or my father. In fact, I bear a startling resemblance to my father’s former steward, a half-elf who was unceremoniously dismissed shortly after my birth. Secondly, I carried on some rather indiscreet dalliances in my youth that had higher society in a tizzy. I may or may not have been caught giving a baron a blow job in the coat room at his daughter’s betrothal feast. Third, my stepmother had just given birth to a boy, a second chance for my father to have the perfect heir.”

“Hm.” Geralt is still stuck on _love songs._

“I’m not officially disinherited, of course. That would cause a scandal. But I do believe my father was hoping that I would starve to death as a traveling bard or have my throat slit by ruffians on the road.”

“I wouldn’t have let that happen,” Geralt says.

The look Jaskier gives him is so fond that it makes Geralt’s chest ache. “I know. He didn’t count on you when he was hoping for my ignominious demise.”

Geralt pictures Jaskier as he was at twenty— wide-eyed, eager to see the world, naive, and annoying as fuck. He spent so much time trying to lose the bard back then, hoping that every time they parted ways, that would be the end of it and Jaskier would find some new, shiny thing to occupy him. Geralt doesn’t want to think about what his life would look like if he had succeeded in driving Jaskier away. Quieter, lonelier, duller.

“Geralt?” Jaskier looks puzzled and Geralt realizes that he’s been staring at Jaskier for too long.

 _Love songs._ Jaskier used to write love songs about him.

“First thing’s first,” Geralt says. “You hold that knife like it’s a handkerchief, not a deadly weapon.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Well, maybe you should have spent the last eight years teaching me how to fight then, Geralt.”

Geralt growls at him and Jaskier laughs, loud and bright, the sound ringing off of brick walls and cobblestone streets.

***

For the first two years of knowing Jaskier, Geralt had no idea how the bard always managed to find him. He suspected a tracking spell at first, but his medallion never vibrated when Jaskier was around. Then he became concerned that his path was growing predictable— a predictable witcher was a dead witcher— but even after he switched things up, Jaskier still managed to track him down. So when Geralt arrived in a small town in southern Kaedwen whose population of young men was being decimated by vampire attacks, he shouldn’t have been surprised to hear a familiar voice belting out a ballad in the tavern.

“Geralt!” Jaskier broke off mid-song as soon as Geralt walked into the tavern and instead started a jaunty rendition of “Toss a Coin.”

A man at the bar had a coin in hand and looked like he was thinking about tossing it at Geralt. Geralt leveled him with a scowl that Jaskier liked to call his “mean scary face.” The man did not toss the coin.

Geralt went to the bar to order a bowl of stew and an ale, ignoring the ridiculousness that was occurring behind him, and found a table in the corner. He hoped that Jaskier would be so caught up in his performance that he would forget about Geralt, but no luck. As soon as the bard was done singing, he grabbed an ale and a bowl of stew of his own and plopped down across from Geralt.

“Found a prime brooding location, I see,” Jaskier said brightly. “You know, you don’t have to consign yourself to brooding in corners, my dear. You could brood anywhere your little witcher heart desires. On the staircase, at the bar, in the center of the room—”

“While burying a body?”

“I can’t tell if that was supposed to be a threat or not. If it was, it was too abstract to be effective.” Jaskier tore off a hunk of bread with his teeth and grinned at Geralt with a full mouth.

Geralt noticed that the bard was looking a bit worse for wear— his doublet was inexpertly patched, his face was thinner than normal, and his hair was in need of a trim. He must have had a difficult summer. Geralt thought he remembered the boy saying he was going home to visit his family, but surely that hadn’t happened if he looked this bedraggled.

Geralt dumped his own piece of bread in Jaskier’s stew.

Jaskier’s smile grew radiant. “Why, thank you, my friend!”

“Not your friend,” Geralt grumbled, ignoring the flash of hurt in the bard’s expression. “And the bread’s stale anyway.”

“Tastes fine to me.” Jaskier shrugged.

“How did you find me?”

“Well, I knew you would be heading north for the winter and I heard that this town was having a vampire problem, so I figured you would show up eventually.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Four days.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “The vampire is preying on young men, and you decided to stay here for four days?”

“Huh,” Jaskier said. “Didn’t think of that.”

Geralt snorted. “Idiot.”

“Oi, bard!” The barkeep calls. “We’re not paying you to chat for your supper.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “It would be nice to actually be able to enjoy my supper. Apologies, Geralt, but I must cut our conversation short.”

“How will I survive?”

“Oh, you. Watch my stew.”

No sooner had Jaskier vacated his chair than a pretty young woman dropped into it and introduced herself as Liesl. Most of the humans Geralt bedded were whores, but there were occasionally young people like Liesl, who were clearly hungering for adventure and saw a tumble with a witcher as a prime opportunity for some fun before settling down in the life of drudgery that was all a town like this could offer them. She was comely enough, and witty to boot, and Geralt would have happily taken her up in the offer evident in the way she bit her lower lip and peered up at him through lowered lashes.

Then he noticed that the music had stopped.

Geralt looked around and saw that Jaskier’s lute was leaning against the stool he had just been occupying, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. Geralt’s stomach dropped. Jaskier never let that lute out of his sight. He cuddled it in his sleep. He even took it with him when he needed a piss. There was no situation where Jaskier would leave it behind, unless someone hadn’t given him the choice.

Fuck.

Geralt didn’t stop to make apologies to Liesl. He followed the too-strong scent of the perfume Jaskier favored towards the back of the tavern. There was no fear scent, but that didn’t mean anything. Jaskier may not have known to be afraid until it was too late; vampires could be beguiling and the bard was a young man always willing to be beguiled by beautiful people.

He smelled the blood right before he pushed open the door.

He found exactly what he was expecting— a dark-haired woman, probably a bruxa, pinning Jaskier against the wall, her teeth buried in his throat. One of her hands was clasped over his mouth, muffling his yells. Jaskier was using both hands to try to pry her arm away, but her grip was unbreakable. The bard’s eyes were wild with terror and even though his cries were muffled, Geralt could just make out the word he was saying over and over again: _“Geralt!”_

Geralt didn’t hesitate. Drawing his silver sword, he crossed the space between them, fisted his hand in her hair, and jerked her head back so she had no choice but to release Jaskier’s neck from her jaws. Her mouth and chin were stained with Jaskier’s blood. The sight sent hot fury coursing through Geralt. With a swing of his sword, he lopped her head off. As the bruxa’s head rolled away, Geralt dropped the sword just in time for Jaskier to collapse into his arms.

Jaskier didn’t touch him often. He had tried a few times— friendly pats on the back or a squeeze of the arm— early on in their acquaintance, but had seemed to pick up that Geralt didn’t like it, so he stopped. But right now, the bard clung to Geralt, trembling. Geralt checked the boy’s neck and found the wound was shallow. It might scar, but it wasn’t fatal.

“You’re alright,” he told Jaskier gruffly. “Everything’s okay.”

“I couldn’t stop.” Jaskier didn’t lift his head from Geralt’s shoulder. “She just looked at me and next thing I knew, I was outside. I didn’t even realize what had happened until she attacked me. Gods, my lute—”

“Will survive.”

Jaskier looked up at him with wet eyes. It struck Geralt how young Jaskier was. He often forgot that the bard was hardly older than twenty. But right now, Jaskier looked painfully young and painfully vulnerable, his eyes still enormous with shock and fear. He had almost died and the whole time, he had been screaming for Geralt. He hadn’t just cried out for help. He hadn’t begged for his life. He had trusted Geralt to save him.

“Come on.” Geralt was not a naturally gentle person, but he tried to keep his voice low and kind. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

They stayed in the town for another two days. Geralt normally wouldn’t linger this long after a contract was completed, but Jaskier still seemed shaken by his ordeal and Geralt didn’t want to rush him into leaving. He suspected that the bard was milking his wound for all it was worth, but he didn’t call Jaskier out on it. Every time he started to, he remembered the way Jaskier had cried out for him while the bruxa drank.

When it was finally time to leave and they were both getting their things together, it occurred to Geralt that Jaskier might not want to travel with him anymore. This was the closest call the bard had had and it would be only natural for him to decide he wanted nothing to do with a Witcher’s path anymore. Geralt was surprised by how lonely that made him feel.

But instead of making excuses, Jaskier turned to him with a questioning look. “I suppose I’ll find you somewhere in the spring?”

“Hm.” Geralt pictured Jaskier wandering the Continent, walking into another town under siege by a monster, maybe ending up the target of another predator. “There’s a tavern in Vizima called The Crone’s Eye. I’ll be there on the first of May. You should join me.”

The smile that lit Jaskier’s face was one of the most brilliant Geralt had ever seen.

***

 _“The vampire bled,”_ Jaskier sings out, his voice honey sweet and smooth. _“As white as a sheet, and yet her dead heart did beat, did beat.”_

“That’s not how it happened,” Geralt grumbles into his ale.

“Makes for a good song, though.” Eskel doesn’t take his eyes off at Jaskier, who sits at the front of the tavern with his lute, singing to a full crowd of mingled townspeople, students, and professors. There’s a vibrancy to Jaskier when he’s performing that always makes him extra appealing. 

If Eskel and Geralt were closer, they would be able to see the twin white scars under Jaskier’s left ear, all that remains of the puncture wounds left by the vampire’s teeth.

“It was just a bruxa looking for an easy meal.” Geralt remembers the terror in Jaskier’s eyes, the way he screamed Geralt’s name against the creature’s hand. “She wasn’t some lovelorn maiden searching for her lost sweetheart.”

“Course not.” Eskel gestures around to the riveted audience. “But none of these people want to hear a song about a blood-drinking beast.”

“You’re starting to sound like Jaskier.”

“Am I?” Eskel’s lips curve into a pleased smile.

Both witchers watch as Jaskier finishes his set, to a round of applause. Jaskier bows with a flourish and goes to the bar to get himself an ale as Essi and Priscilla take the stage. When the two bards begin to play a jaunty dancing tune, Jaskier changes course and makes a beeline for Geralt and Eskel’s table.

“Dance with me, love.” Jaskier takes Eskel’s hand and tugs him to his feet.

Eskel goes willingly, though he looks skeptical. “I’m a shit dancer, songbird."

“Oh, I don’t believe that for a second. Just follow my lead.”

Eskel shoots Geralt a _“save me”_ look, which Geralt responds to with a _“you’re on your own”_ shrug. He watches with amusement as Jaskier and Eskel begin to dance. Eskel is indeed a shit dancer, but Jaskier more than makes up for it, prancing and spinning around with far more flourishes than the song requires. Geralt knows what he’s doing— attracting attention to himself so people aren’t gawping at the spectacle of a dancing witcher.

They’ve been in Oxenfurt for three days now and it hasn’t gotten any easier to watch them together, but Geralt has become familiar with the ache in his chest. It lingers every time he wakes up to see them tangled together. Every time he falls asleep to the sound of them murmuring sweet nothings to each other. Every time he returns to the room and smells the lingering scents of arousal, sweat, and sex in the air.

Shani drops into the chair next to him, smelling strongly of the perfume Priscilla was wearing earlier and hair askew. “They’re cute together, aren’t they?” She nods to Eskel and Jaskier.

“Hm.” Geralt watches as Eskel catches Jaskier around the waist and dips him, eliciting a delighted squawk from the bard.

“I haven’t seen Jask this happy in years,” Shani adds.

“Same with Eskel.” His former lover’s smile is broad and unabashed, with little care for his scars. It leaves Geralt feeling warm and so, so lonely at the same time.

“It’s strange, though.”

“What’s strange?”

“I always thought that you and Jaskier would end up together.”

Geralt drags his eyes away from Jaskier and Eskel to frown at her. “Why would you think that?”

She arches an eyebrow. “Because Jaskier was in love with you for years.”

“What?” Geralt’s voice comes out embarrassingly squeaky.

“You didn’t know?” Shani looks surprised. “Huh, Jaskier never struck me as the subtle type.”

“He’s not.” When they first started traveling together, Geralt knew that Jaskier found him attractive. But the bard got over the childish crush as they got to know each other better. Surely, Geralt would have known if he wanted more.

“That first year after he met you, you were all he talked about,” Shani says, taking a sip of ale. “How brave, how handsome, how song-worthy you were. We started charging him a coin every time he mentioned you. He was broke within a week.” She laughs at the memory.

Geralt swallows. His mouth is suddenly dry. “He’s a good friend.”

“He is.” The mirth vanishes from Shani’s expression and the look she gives Geralt is full of pity. “Fuck, I’ve stuck my foot in it, haven’t I? I didn’t realize.”

“I don’t—”

“Last winter he kept weeping into his ale, saying you didn’t feel the same way and he needed to move on.”

Geralt looks back at Jaskier and Eskel. The song has slowed to a sweet, crooning ballad and they’re swaying together, Jaskier’s arms around Eskel’s neck. Eskel is murmuring something in Jaskier’s ear too low to be heard over the music.

“Jaskier is my friend,” Geralt says firmly. “So is Eskel.”

Shani nods, studying him with a sad expression. “He’s lucky to have both of you, you know. Your friendship and Eskel’s love.”

Jaskier laughs, the sound ringing across the room. Fuck, Geralt loves that laugh.

“They’re lucky to have each other,” Geralt says.

He makes his excuses to Shani and leaves before Eskel and Jaskier can return from their dance, heading to the nearest brothel. Normally, Geralt is just happy to find a bed partner who isn’t afraid of him, but he finds several whores who are downright eager to take him to bed. Jaskier has apparently spent years telling tales about him to every whore who would listen. Geralt spends his evening with a sweet young man with pretty blue eyes that _don’t_ remind him of another pair of blue eyes and returns to the lodgings he shares with Eskel and Jaskier in the wee hours of the morning.

This late, he expects to find them asleep, so he isn’t listening for any sound within the room. When he pushes open the door, careful not to make a noise, he’s hit with the familiar scents of arousal and sex. He freezes in the doorway.

Jaskier is lying on his stomach, ass in the air, while Eskel kneels next to the bed with his face buried in Jaskier’s ass. Jaskier’s moans are soft and breathy, his back arching as Eskel growls into him. Geralt’s feet are planted to the floor, unable to move. The whole scene— the way Jaskier’s mouth is open in pleasure, Eskel’s fingers digging into the soft, pale flesh of Jaskier’s ass, Eskel’s erection straining at his smallclothes— is too much.

And then Geralt realizes what he’s doing— intruding on a moment that’s not meant for him— and he forces his feet into motion. Backing away, he pulls the door closed behind him and hurries outside. The cold night air is a slap in the face and he leans against the wall in the narrow space between two buildings, breathing like he just ran several miles. His cock is rock hard in his pants, despite the several rounds he just went at the brothel.

When he closes his eyes, he remembers the wet sounds Eskel’s tongue made as it plunged into Jaskier. The smooth skin of Jaskier’s back. The smell of sex in the air. With a groan, Geralt unbuttons his breeches and takes his cock in hand. He tries to think about the whore he spent the evening with, whose mouth did incredible things to Geralt, but he only ends up thinking about Eskel’s mouth on Jaskier’s ass.

He pictures himself kneeling behind Eskel, watching the flicker of Eskel’s tongue as he works Jaskier open. He pictures himself inside of Eskel, rolling his hips slowly to drive the other witcher to the edge. Eskel’s breath stuttering as he tries to focus on the task at hand. Jaskier looking back at them with lust-drunk blue eyes. Geralt imagines that his own hand is the clench of Eskel’s ass around his cock

In his mind’s eye, Eskel presses back against him with a moan while Jaskier watches. Geralt thrusts into Eskel’s familiar heat, gasping as Eskel’s hole flutters around his cock. He slides his hands over the swell of Eskel’s ass and his muscled thighs. When he spills into his own hand, he pictures Eskel reaching orgasm at the same time, thighs shaking under Geralt’s hands as he finds his pleasure.

Geralt wipes his hands on his pants, buttons up his breeches, and stands there for a long time, leaning against the wall and trying not to picture what’s happening upstairs in the bedroom.

He fails. 

***

The first time Geralt called Jaskier “friend,” it was a slip of the tongue. They were in a tavern in Aedirn when Geralt passed Jaskier his ale and caught whiff of a familiar scent— garlicky, stale breath. Someone had spat in the ale.

Geralt was used to people spitting in his own ale. He didn’t let it stop him from drinking it. But Jaskier had just spent hours giving his all while performing for the impassive audience, ignoring their grumbled insults. He was rumpled and sweaty from the performance, cheeks pink and his hair disheveled. talking excitedly like it was the show of a lifetime. Something ugly twisted in Geralt’s chest.

Rising to his feet, Geralt snatched the mug of ale from Jaskier’s hand, ignoring the bard’s protests that he was thirsty and what the hell was Geralt playing at? Without a word, Geralt stalked to the bar and slammed the mug down on the counter.

“You’re going to pour my friend another mug of ale,” he growled at the barkeep, who looked like he was regretting all his life choices. “Without spit in it. I’ll know.”

The barkeep swallowed and hurried to comply.

When Geralt returned to the table with Jaskier’s fresh ale, the bard asked, “What about your ale?”

“Hm?”

“Your ale must have spit in it too.”

Geralt shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be.” Making eye contact with the barkeep, Jaskier picked up Geralt’s spat-in ale and dumped the whole thing on the ground, before pouring half of his own ale into the empty tankard.

Geralt was surprised by how much the gesture touched him. “You don’t have to do that.”

“With the company around here, it might be best if I stay sober tonight,” Jaskier said. “Anyway, anything for a friend.”

Their eyes met and Jaskier’s lip curled into a smile. Helplessly, Geralt found himself smiling back.

***

Geralt soon settles into a routine in Oxenfurt over the next two weeks. He trains in the morning, sometimes with Eskel or Jaskier joining him. There’s a tavern near the university with a dwarf barkeep who doesn’t seem to give a damn that Geralt’s a witcher and is only too happy to play him in Gwent whenever he stops in. Occasionally, Geralt stops by Jaskier’s lectures and stands in the back, out of sight as Jaskier talks about music theory and other things that Geralt doesn’t understand. He enjoys seeing the confidence that imbues the bard as he teaches, surpassed only by his passion.

He spends a lot of time with Eskel, which is pleasant. The two haven’t spent much time together one-on-one since the end of their relationship; they’ve almost always had Lambert, Coën, or Vesemir present as a buffer. But some days, Eskel joins Geralt at the tavern to play Gwent. Other days, he stands in the back with Geralt and watches Jaskier lecture. One night, they take a contract together for a nest of ghouls in one of the graveyards. It almost feels like old times, back when things were easy between them.

Geralt is surprised to find he’s content. It’s still hard to watch Jaskier and Eskel together. He thinks it will always be hard. But they’re happy, so Geralt is trying to be the kind of man who can find joy in the fact that two people he loves have found each other. Even if their happiness doesn’t include him.

If Eskel and Jaskier notice how much time Geralt is spending in brothels, they don’t say anything about it. And Geralt never says anything about the night he walked in on them, even if he wakes up rock hard every morning thinking about it. He’s gotten much better about listening in the hallway before he walks into the room.

He’s sharpening his sword by the fire one night when Jaskier says, “Tomorrow, we really need to go get the two of you fitted for your outfits for the dean’s Yule party.”

“Yule party?” Geralt looks up, startled.

“Of course. I told you about it last week, remember? When we were having dinner with Priscilla and Shani?”

“Hm.” Jaskier had clearly pleasured Eskel with his mouth right before they went to dinner at Shani’s lodgings. The bard had tried to wash his face, but Geralt could still smell traces of Eskel and sex every time Jaskier leaned close to him to grab a dinner roll or make a sarcastic aside. He doesn’t think he heard a damn word anyone said all night.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Every year, the dean of the university holds a lovely party on the last day of Yule. There’s everything you could want— wine, exquisite food, performances by the best musicians the university has to offer, including yours truly.”

“And Valdo Marx, I assume.”

“I will make you sleep in the stables tonight, witcher. See if I don’t.” Jaskier puffs out his chest with indignation, drawing a chuckle out of both Geralt and Eskel. 

“Doesn’t explain why Eskel and I need outfits,” Geralt says.

Eskel smirks. “Well, we can’t wear armor to a party, Wolf. It wouldn’t be seemly.” He does a shockingly good impression of Jaskier, even in his deep, rumbling voice.

“Absolutely correct, Eskel,” Jaskier says primly. “Anyway, you’re both coming as my plus ones, so your outfits should really match mine.”

“Hm.” Geralt doubtfully eyes Jaskier’s doublet, which is an eye-scalding shade of pink. “I’m not wearing anything to match _that_.”

“I’m obviously getting a new outfit, you degenerate. Really, what do you take me for?”

“When is this?”

“A week from tomorrow.”

Geralt mentally calculates his likelihood of getting grievously wounded fighting a wyvern in the next week.

“Don’t even think about it, Wolf.” Eskel clasps his shoulder. “If I’m going to this thing, so are you.”

Jaskier huffs in exasperation. “Honestly, only the two of you would prefer wrestling in the mud with a kikimore over going to a lavish party.”

“Come on, songbird.” Eskel catches the offended bard around the waist and pulls him into his lap. Jaskier melts against him and Geralt looks away. “You know I’d go anywhere with you.”

“Of course you will, my love,” Jaskier says. “And luckily, I have you here to keep Geralt in line.”

Geralt grumbles in response.

Despite his best efforts, a week later, Geralt finds himself standing in front of a mirror, buttoning up a royal blue doublet that he’s been assured will look “striking” with his hair. The doublet is made of a silky, shimmery material that ichor would never come out of. He hasn’t been allowed to bring a weapon because “you don’t bring _swords_ to Yule parties, Geralt.” Even his boots are impractical, barely more than slippers. He’s seriously contemplating slipping back into his armor when Eskel steps into view behind him, buttoning up the sleeve of his own silver blue doublet.

Eskel looks just as impractical as Geralt. He also looks damn good.

“Can you help me with this button, Wolf?” Eskel asks, tongue poking out between his teeth as he concentrates. It’s a habit he’s picked up from Jaskier. “Can’t make it work.”

Geralt hums and turns to help. The buttons are tiny silver things, as decorative as the rest of the outfit. Geralt’s thick fingers fumble with them.

Eskel chuckles. “Glad I’m not the only one.”

“Hm.” Geralt’s fingers brush the pulse point of Eskel’s wrist. His skin is soft; he’s clearly been letting Jaskier take charge of his skin care routine.

“You look good.” Eskel’s voice goes low and husky.

“I look like I murdered a merchant and stole his doublet.”

“Oh, come on. It’s nice, getting to wear something that’s never been covered in blood or ichor.”

“Not yet.”

“I’ve heard university faculty parties are cutthroat, but I don’t think we have to worry about blood or ichor tonight.”

“Just wait until Jaskier gets some eggnog in him and runs into Valdo Marx.”

Eskel smiles. Geralt is so distracted by the sight that he manages to get the button through the wrong loop.

The door opens and Jaskier comes striding through, looking resplendent in a silver and blue doublet that supposedly complements Eskel and Geralt’s outfits perfectly. The bard stands in the doorway, staring at Eskel and Geralt for a long moment. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“You both look incredible,” he says, sounding a bit hoarse.

“So do you, songbird.” Eskel’s gaze rakes over him.

Geralt hums in disinterested agreement.

“Here, let me.” Jaskier crosses the room and buttons up Eskel’s sleeve with several quick flicks of his fingers. His head bends so close to Geralt that the witcher can smell his hair pomade.

“Geralt tried to run,” Eskel says, watching Jaskier with soft eyes. “I stopped him.”

Geralt snorts. “Bullshit. You couldn’t stop me if you tried.”

“My hero.” Jaskier cups Eskel’s cheek in his hand and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’ll be on Geralt duty all night, make sure he doesn’t dive out a window to escape.”

Geralt refuses to dignify that with a response. He does not try to escape once on the way to the Yule party. He only thinks about it a few times.

The dean’s house is exactly what Geralt expected: large, expensive, and stuffed to the brim with lavishly dressed people who all seem to take themselves far too seriously. Jaskier provides a running commentary as they make their way up the front steps. “Honestly, Professor Zielinski has some _nerve_ showing up after that nonsense he pulled with the chambermaid last year. I’m shocked he was invited back. Oh look, there’s Lady Zelena! She looks ten years younger ever since she got rid of that layabout husband of hers. Oh, excellent, Callum is here, he’s from Skellige and he always has the best stories. Ninety percent bullshit, of course, but entertaining nonetheless.”

“Do you know any of these people?” Geralt mutters to Eskel.

“Not a one.” Eskel smiles and nods to a staring woman. “But they’re not shouting and throwing things, so I’ll take it.”

It’s true, the sight of Jaskier walking into the party with two well-dressed witchers only attracts some curious looks. No one marches up to them and demands they leave at once. No one even looks overtly hostile. When a young man approaches with a tray of sparkling wine, Geralt tenses, ready to block Jaskier and Eskel from any thrown glasses, but the boy only offers them something to drink. Jaskier laughs at the expression on Geralt’s face as he snags a glass.

“Relax, Geralt,” he says airily. “Nobody here is any danger to you, I promise. Except for Lady Patrice over there, who will absolutely try to seduce you by the end of the evening. Don’t do it. She has a very large, very jealous husband.”

“You know that from experience, songbird?” Eskel asks mildly.

“Do I.” Jaskier grins. “Come on, let’s find Shani and Priscilla.”

They find Shani and Priscilla on the dancefloor, swaying together as a group of Oxenfurt students sing a slow, sweet love song. Geralt recognizes several of the singers from Jaskier’s class.

“You actually got them to match, Jask!” Priscilla claps her hands together, delighted.

“Well, they are my dates.” Jaskier plucks at Eskel’s doublet. “And don’t they look dashing?”

“You two don’t match.” Geralt looks between Shani’s black dress and Priscilla’s green.

“Of course we don’t, we don’t live for drama like Jaskier does.” Shani glances at her lover. “Well, I don’t.”

Priscilla makes a face at her. “I’m not as obvious as Jask. This is the sartorial equivalent of pissing on a tree to mark your territory.”

“And on that note!” Jaskier says brightly, giving Priscilla a death glare. “Let’s find something to eat.”

To Geralt’s surprise, the party is pleasant. Shani and Priscilla are good company, the food is delicious, and the wine is plentiful. Priscilla is the next performance after the Oxenfurt students, followed by Jaskier. Unsurprisingly, he sings the song he wrote for Eskel, followed by a couple of little ditties about Yule. Naturally, he ends the set with “Fishmonger’s Daughter,” which makes Geralt groan and roll his eyes, to Eskel's amusement

“You know, he only sings this song as much as he does because he knows you hate it,” Eskel murmurs to Geralt. “He likes getting a rise out of you.”

“Hadn’t noticed,” Geralt says dryly. On stage, Jaskier is doing a little jig as he sings.

“If you stopped reacting, he’d probably stop singing it.”

“Hm.” Geralt takes a sip of his wine. “I’ll let him have his fun.”

When Jaskier has finished with his set, a dark-haired woman begins to sing an upbeat dancing tune and Jaskier makes a beeline for Eskel. Eskel makes a show of groaning, but he’s already polishing off his wine and handing his empty glass to the nearest server.

“Thought we’d established that I don’t dance, songbird,” he says as Jaskier grabs his hand.

“It’s a _party,_ Eskel!”

Eskel laughs and lets himself be dragged away, his gaze unbearably fond. Geralt starts to look for a nice wall to stand against and be unobtrusive, but Priscilla comes rushing out of the crowd and grabs him by the hand.

“Come on, I love this song,” she says.

Geralt could easily break her hold, but he lets her pull him towards the dance floor. “What about Shani?”

“Shani’s busy arguing about anesthesia with some older than dirt medical professor who thinks it’s ‘not necessary.’” Priscilla rolls her eyes. “I needed to give her space to make him regret his entire career.”

“I’m not a good dancer,” Geralt tells her.

“You don’t have to be. I’ll do all the work.” She smiles up at him brilliantly.

Fucking bards.

Priscilla begins to steer him around the dance floor with the force of someone twice her size. “How do you like Oxenfurt?” she asks.

“It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Geralt, you’re dancing!” Jaskier calls, delighted. “Priscilla, you got him to dance!”

Priscilla salutes him as they pass.

“Oxenfurt’s not terrible,” Geralt amends begrudgingly.

Her lips quirk in amusement. “It must be a change for you, after all those years of being on the road all the time.”

“It is. Less sleeping on the ground and rolling around in monster shit.”

Priscilla wrinkles her nose. “Well, I can see why you just think it’s fine, then.”

Geralt chuckles. “It’s a nice break, but I don’t fit in here.”

“Of course you do. There’s less of a difference between wading through monster shit and listening to academics talk than you might think. Twirl me.”

Geralt complies, catching her in his arms.

Priscilla leans back against his chest, gazing up at him. “Jaskier has loved having you here, you know.”

“It’s good for him to have Eskel around.” Over her head, Geralt sees Eskel dip Jaskier.

“It’s good for him to have _both_ of you around,” Priscilla corrects him.

“Hm.”

“You could belong here, you know. Because you belong with Jaskier.”

Geralt’s gaze snaps back to her guiltily.

Her smile is all too knowing, and painfully kind. “I see the way you look at him when you don’t think he and Eskel are looking. It’s okay.”

“Eskel—”

“I see the way you look at Eskel too.”

Geralt glances away from her.

“Have you tried talking to them?”

“There’s no point. They’re happy.”

“Yes, they are. But you could be too.” When he doesn’t say anything, she puts a hand on his chest. “You’re allowed to want things for yourself, Geralt.”

Geralt swallows. “Not this.”

The song comes to an end and Priscilla turns to face him. “Jaskier’s my friend, and I won’t break his confidence. But I think if you talked to him, you would be pleasantly surprised.”

Before Geralt can think of a reply, she makes a beeline for Jaskier and Eskel. Stunned, he watches as she slides between the two men, taking Eskel’s hands in hers. When Jaskier protests, she jerks a thumb at Geralt. Gesturing dramatically, Jaskier bounds towards Geralt.

“Horrible woman. Absolute menace. I don’t know why we’re friends.” Jaskier all but collapses into Geralt’s arms. He smells of wine, lavender, and Eskel. “Priscilla stole my dance partner.” 

On the other side of the dance floor, Priscilla is steering Eskel around. Eskel shoots Geralt a helpless look, which Geralt returns with a grin. “I can see that.”

“Years of friendship, and I am betrayed.” Jaskier heaves a sigh. “I never knew you could dance.”

“I can’t,” Geralt says, bemused.

“Lies. Right now, you’re dancing and you’re doing a decent job.”

“I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

“I think I’ve had the perfect amount to drink.” Jaskier’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes are looking very blue. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

“Hm.”

“You are! You, Geralt of Rivia, are at a social function and are genuinely enjoying yourself.”

“You’re happy,” Geralt finds himself saying without thinking. “That makes me happy.”

Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “Geralt, that may be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Geralt grunts. “Don’t read into it.”

“Too late. It’s been read into.” The music slows, and so do they, swaying together. Geralt’s hands are on Jaskier’s waist and he’s very aware of the bard’s warmth. Across the room, Priscilla is whispering something to Eskel and he’s laughing softly.

“I’m glad you’re happy here, Geralt,” Jaskier says quietly. “I was worried that you’d be miserable when we first arrived.”

“Why would I have been miserable?”

“Well, cities aren’t your thing. People aren’t your thing. Parties aren’t your thing.”

“No, they’re not,” Geralt says simply. “But you’re here. That helps. It’s been good to see how you live here. To meet your friends. I...” He trails off, hoping that Jaskier will do what Jaskier does best, and talk over him. But Jaskier is quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“You’re important to me,” Geralt says. “So what’s important to you is important to me. Including this party.”

“And now I know you’re lying,” Jaskier teases.

“I’m not.” Geralt thinks of the speech he was going to give back in Oxenfurt, those words of adoration he practiced on Roach so many times. He can feel them on the tip of his tongue now. With Jaskier in his arms, they would be so easy to say. Then he hears Eskel’s laughter and remembers why he can’t. He won’t hurt Eskel, who loves Jaskier, who makes him happy, who managed to survive what should have been a fatal stomach wound because he knew Jaskier was in danger. Eskel and Jaskier belong together, and what kind of friend would Geralt be if he got in the way of that?

But Jaskier used to be in love with him. Shani as good as said so.

Jaskier is looking at Geralt with an unreadable expression and Geralt is suddenly aware that he’s been staring at the bard for too long. Something must show on his face, because Jaskier takes a step back as soon as the song ends. He’s still smiling, but it’s that forced smile he uses during a bad performance or when he’s talking to someone he wants to get away from. Geralt has a terrible feeling that both apply right now.

“I need to get some air,” Jaskier says. “You should try the quiche. I’ve heard good things.”

And then he hurries away, vanishing through the crowd. Geralt’s eyes meet Eskel’s across the dance floor. The other witcher frowns, murmurs something to Priscilla, and heads after Geralt. Priscilla turns to Geralt and gives him a very clear _“whatever you did, fix it”_ look. Geralt just shrugs. The young woman shakes her head and lets herself be swept away by another dance partner.

Geralt doesn’t try the quiche, but he does go to get himself another drink. He downs the flute of sparkling wine in one gulp and wishes that it was the White Gull that Lambert brews at Kaer Morhen. Without Jaskier, Eskel, or Priscilla next to him, there are too many damn people in this room and too many of them are looking at him. He takes a deep breath and heads in the direction that Jaskier and Eskel disappeared to. Whatever he said or did to upset Jaskier, he can fix it. He can make this better.

He finds Eskel and Jaskier in the back garden, sitting on a stone bench side by side. They’re holding hands, their heads bent close together.

“I’m sorry,” he hears Jaskier say quietly.

Geralt pauses. Neither of them have noticed him lurking in the shadows.

“You don’t need to apologize to me, songbird,” Eskel murmurs.

“I just… sometimes, I fool myself for a second into thinking he feels the same way. He’ll look at me a certain way and I’ll think to myself, ‘Finally. He finally fucking sees me.’ But it’s always me imagining things, because I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot, Jask.”

“I am.” Jaskier sounds unbearably tired. “Fuck, Eskel. I have everything I could ever ask for. I have _you_. And still…”

“I get it.” Eskel’s voice is barely a whisper. “I’m well aware of what it’s like to be in love with Geralt.”

“Of course you are.” Jaskier laughs without humor. “You’ve been in love with him for longer than I’ve been alive.”

Geralt can’t breathe. He should leave, he knows. This conversation isn’t meant for him. But he’s frozen to the spot.

“I thought I was over him,” Jaskier says, sounding close to tears. “I told myself I was over him. Gods, Eskel, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.” Eskel sounds so heartbroken that it twists something inside of Geralt.

Geralt takes a step backwards, stricken. The two people he loves the most are sitting in front of him, both hurting, and it’s because of him. This thing between Eskel and Jaskier— this relationship that has made them both so happy— seems to be in danger. While Geralt has been lost in his own head, Eskel and Jaskier have been suffering, and he hasn’t even noticed.

He knows what he needs to do. Silently, as to not draw attention to himself, Geralt turns and leaves.

***

Over the years Geralt and Jaskier had known each other— going on seven at this point— Geralt had gotten very good at being able to sense it when his friend was in trouble. Usually, if Jaskier was in a tavern and he stopped singing, that was when Geralt started to worry, because Jaskier had probably either wandered off to fuck someone he wasn’t supposed to or was about to get robbed at knifepoint.

Or in this case, had found himself in the middle of a bar fight.

“You son of a whore!” Jaskier was shouting, even as Geralt hauled him bodily out of the tavern. “Say that again to my face, you limp-dicked—”

“Keep the bard under control, Butcher, or you’re both sleeping outside,” the barkeep snapped as they passed.

“—Fool and slanderer, wastrel who has never done a bit of good in your fucking life—”

“Jask,” Geralt growled.

“—Drunkard and coward—”

Geralt hauled Jaskier through the door of their room, slamming and locking it behind them. “Jaskier!”

Jaskier twisted around to scowl up at Geralt. He reeked of ale and color was high on his cheeks, as it always was when he drank. “I had that well in hand, Geralt.”

“Did you?” Geralt demanded. “Because when I walked in, you were surrounded by four men, one of whom was armed.”

Jaskier’s eyes went wide. “Which one?”

Fucking hells, sometimes it amazed Geralt that this bard had survived so long. “What the fuck happened? I was gone for an hour.”

“Really, was it only an hour? The grave hag couldn’t have given you any trouble.”

“Wasn’t a grave hag. Just an old woman without anywhere else to go.”

“Ah.” Jaskier sighed. “I take it we have significantly less coin than we did this morning?”

“And fewer rations.”

He expected Jaskier to be angry, but the bard’s expression softened. “Only you would walk into a graveyard to kill a hag and end up giving an old woman all our coin and food.”

“Not _all_ of it,” Geralt grumbled, embarrassed.

Jaskier turned to glare at the door. “Those fucking bastards in the tavern would never.”

“What happened, Jask?”

“It wasn’t my fault. You should have heard the utter _filth_ they were spewing.”

Geralt groaned. “You can’t start fights with everyone who thinks witchers are monsters.”

“It wasn’t just that.” Jaskier drew himself up. “They thought I was a prisoner of some kind. That you were holding me against my will.”

“Hm.” It wasn’t the first time people had made that assumption.

“And when I very forcibly gave them a piece of my mind, they took offense,”

“From the pieces of your mind I overheard, I’m not surprised.”

“It’s all fucking lies, Geralt!”

“Well aware, bard. If I could force you to do anything, it would be to go back to Oxenfurt and leave me be.”

He hoped that the playful ribbing would break the tension between them and that Jaskier would laugh and splutter and exclaim about ungrateful witchers. But instead, Jaskier’s brow furrowed and he reached out to take Geralt’s face in his hands. Absurdly, Geralt felt his heart rate pick up in his chest.

“Never,” Jaskier told him solemnly. “You’re stuck with me, Geralt of Rivia, until I’ve sung enough songs that the rest of the Continent adores you half as much as I do.”

It was true that Geralt was less verbose than Jaskier, but it was still rare that he found himself utterly speechless like he did now.

“You deserve their love,” Jaskier said. “I’ve never met anyone as deserving of love as you. And I’m going to make them realize that.”

Geralt managed to find his voice. “You’re drunk, Jask.”

“I am.” Jaskier nodded seriously. “But I’m not so drunk that I’ve forgotten that you’re my best friend and that I love you, Geralt. You deserve the world, and I’m going to make sure that you fucking get it.”

Geralt never had to figure out what to say to that, because the innkeeper came pounding on the door to tell them to get the fuck out a moment later. But Jaskier’s words would echo in his mind for months to come.

***

Leaving Oxenfurt is one of the hardest things Geralt has ever done, and not just because of the cold. He packs his things and goes to get Roach before slipping out of the city under the cover of darkness. The mare is clearly unhappy with this turn of events and Geralt briefly considers leaving her in the warmth and safety of the university’s stables, but this winter is going to be hard enough even with a horse.

It’s for the best, he tells himself as he rides away. Once he’s gone, Eskel and Jaskier can be together, just the two of them, like it should be. Whatever Geralt fucked up between them will be fixed once he’s out of the way.

He’s survived on his own during the winter before and this year should be no different. But the road seems colder and lonelier after sharing the warmth of Jaskier and Eskel’s bed. He can’t stop picturing Eskel and Jaskier, curled up together in bed, warm and safe. Eskel holding Jaskier like he’s the most precious thing in the world. Their bodies twined together as they fuck.

They’ll be okay without him. They’ll be better without him.

About a week after leaving Oxenfurt, he’s roasting yet another scrawny rabbit over yet another flickering campfire when he hears the crunch of approaching hoofbeats on the frozen ground. Every muscle in Geralt’s body instantly tenses, ready for a fight.

And then he smells leather and lavender, the mingled scents of Jaskier and Eskel, and he relaxes, before remembering why it was he left Oxenfurt. He looks up to see Scorpion coming through trees, with Eskel astride the black stallion. Eskel pulls Scorpion to a halt at the edge of the clearing and the two witchers stare at each other. After weeks of seeing Eskel in the soft, loose-fitting woolen sweaters he favors when he’s not on the Path, it’s strange to see Eskel in his spiked red armor, his swords strapped to his back.

Eskel dismounts Scorpion and ties the horse to the tree next to Roach before turning back to Geralt and saying, “You’re alright.”

Geralt is reminded of that terrible night when Eskel found him after Blaviken. “I’m fine.”

“We weren’t sure, you know, when you disappeared from the party. Jaskier was convinced something terrible had happened to you until we got back to the room to find your things gone.” In the firelight, Eskel’s expression is remote. “You could have left a note, Wolf.”

“Didn’t think I’d have anything to say that would be worth reading.”

“Bullshit.” Geralt is surprised by the force in Eskel’s voice. “What happened?”

Geralt throws another stick in the fire, which hisses and smokes, but doesn’t grow. “Doesn’t matter. Go back to Oxenfurt, Esk. You and Jaskier can enjoy the rest of your winter. You deserve it.”

“I promised Jaskier I wouldn’t come back without you. I keep my promises to Jaskier.” Eskel takes a step towards Geralt. “Tell me what happened, Geralt. Why did you leave? If you weren’t happy, you could have said something.”

“It wasn’t me that was unhappy.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I heard the two of you talking at the party.”

Eskel looks confused for a moment, then realization dawns on his face. “Oh.”

Geralt looks away from him to poke at the rabbit. “I don’t want to come between the two of you. You’re happy together. I won’t be the reason that changes.”

“Is that what you thought was happening, Geralt?” Eskel lets out an incredulous little laugh. “You thought that just because Jaskier and I both love you that it was going to ruin things between us?”

Geralt doesn’t say anything.

“Geralt, I say this as someone who has loved you since I was six years old,” Eskel says. “But get the fuck over yourself.”

Geralt’s head jerks up to stare at him.

“I love Jaskier,” Eskel says. “There’s nothing in this sphere or any other that will ever stop me from loving Jaskier. And I can’t speak for him, but I think he feels the same. Our feelings for you don’t change that.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Geralt croaks.

“You already have,” Eskel says. “First, when you vanished after Blaviken. Then when you left me. After that, I could at least comfort myself with the fact that you still loved me, even if it wasn’t the way I wanted you to love me. You were still my friend. And then you left _again_.”

Geralt closes his eyes. “I ended things because I had to.”

“No, you ended things because you were scared. Just like you left Oxenfurt because you were scared.”

“Witchers died because of what happened at Blaviken, Eskel. If people found out about you and me—” Geralt breaks off, haunted by all the times that he pictured Eskel, mobbed by a crowd of angry villagers, stones and pitchforks thrown at him. “I didn’t leave you because of the scars.”

Eskel is silent for a long moment. “I see you’ve been eavesdropping a lot lately.”

Geralt clenches his jaw, but doesn’t say anything.

“It wasn’t a hard assumption to make,” Eskel says. “You loved me before my scars. You stopped loving me after.”

“I didn’t,” Geralt whispers. “I never did.”

He opens his eyes to see Eskel standing directly on the other side of the fire, staring down at him.

“I’ve loved you since I met you, Eskel,” Geralt says. “Since before I was old enough to understand it. That’s never going to change.”

Eskel turns away from Geralt and for a moment, Geralt thinks he’s pushed the other witcher too far and that Eskel’s going to leave. Instead, Eskel takes a deep breath. “What happened after Blaviken wasn’t your fault. People are always going to look for a reason to hate witchers. Blaviken just gave them an excuse to throw the stones. I wore a Wolf school medallion around my neck. That made me a target. Being your lover was a respite. Most days, it was all I had. And then that was gone.”

Slowly, Geralt stands and moves around the fire towards him. “Eskel.”

Eskel turns towards him, eyes a bit too bright.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says. “I thought I was protecting you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. You safe and happy. Jaskier safe and happy. I just keep fucking it up.”

“You don’t,” Eskel says quietly. “Trust me, it would be easier if you didn’t make both of us so damn happy.”

Geralt closes the last step between them, reaching up to cup Eskel’s face in his hands. Even after all these years, he knows the planes of Eskel’s face as well as he knows his own— the broad nose, the square jaw, the curve of his mouth. “I never stopped wanting you, Eskel. I never stopped missing you. I never stopped _loving_ you.”

Eskel kisses him, his lips as sweet and familiar as if their last kiss was only yesterday, and not nearly two decades ago. It’s as gentle of a kiss as their first one after the Trial, slow and tentative. Geralt feels a weight that he didn’t realize he’s been carrying on his shoulders for years lift.

After a long, languorous moment, Geralt breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against Eskel’s.

“I love you too, Wolf,” Eskel whispers. “There’s nothing in this sphere or any other that can change that either.”

Geralt swallows back the lump in his throat at the words. “Jaskier…”

“How long have you loved him?”

“At least since Belleteyn,” Geralt says. “Probably longer.”

“He’s a hard man not to love.” Geralt can hear the smile in Eskel’s voice.

“I want…” Geralt doesn’t know how to put into words exactly _what_ he wants. It’s all too big and too terrifying. Only moments ago, it seemed hopelessly out of his reach.

“I know.” Eskel brushes another kiss across his lips. “Let’s get you back to Oxenfurt, Wolf. I think we need to talk to Jaskier.”

***

There was only one person on the Continent that Geralt would willingly attend a Belleteyn Festival for— well, maybe two, but Geralt wasn’t thinking about that— and he was currently peering up at Geralt from underneath the too-large flower crown that was falling into his eyes.

“Please, Geralt?” Jaskier stuck out his lower lip in a pout that had no effect on Geralt whatsoever. None.

“No.”

“It’s just one itty-bitty flower crown. It won’t make you look any less witchery, I promise.”

“No.”

“I crafted it with my own two hands.”

“No you didn’t. You bought it for a half crown from her.” Geralt jerked his chin towards the pretty, plump young woman walking around with a basket of flowers.

“I did. And I think she may be interested in displaying her other wares later.” Jaskier grinned. “Look, Geralt, this is a celebration of love and fertility.”

“So you’ve said.”

“And you’re wearing swords and armor. It doesn’t seem like you’re ready to celebrate love and fertility.”

“I’m not fertile, Jaskier. The Trials took care of that.”

Jaskier groaned. “Gods, you’re impossible. Here, why don’t I give this to someone who will appreciate it?” He turned and bowed to Roach. “My lady, a flower crown for your beautiful— Hey!” He snatched back the flower crown as Roach snapped at it. “It’s for wearing, not for eating, you foul beast!”

Geralt scratched Roach on the side of the neck and decided she would get extra sugar cubes later.

“Honestly.” Jaskier planted his hands on his hips. “No one appreciates the crown that I lovingly made—”

“We already established that you didn’t make it.”

“—That I lovingly selected _specifically_ to match your beautiful yellow eyes, Geralt. Honestly, I’m going to die of a broken heart. Make sure they write a ballad about me, my dear witcher. Just don’t let it be Valdo Marx, because I don’t want that joyless hack associated with me after my death. That pretentious whoreson would turn it into some kind of moralistic parable and my soul would never be able to rest. I would wander the countryside as a wraith and—”

Geralt snatched the flower crown from Jaskier’s hand and perched it on the top of his own head. He could always take it off as soon as the bard’s back was turned. “There, happy?”

Jaskier’s entire face lit up and to Geralt’s surprise, he threw his arms around Geralt and pulled him into a crushing embrace. “You look lovely, my dear,” he said. “Truly, I’ve never seen anything lovelier in all my years.”

“You don’t have that many years. That’s not impressive.”

“Oh, hush.” Jaskier swatted him on the chest and grinned up at him.

Geralt would never know what exactly did it. Jaskier had smiled at him and looked at him with shining blue eyes a thousand times before that. Maybe it was the way the bard’s own flower crown matched his eyes. Maybe it was the way his lips were stained purple from wine and his cheeks were tinted pink from sunlight. Maybe it was the familiar scent of his lavender oil, gentler than the too-strong floral scents that he used to wear. Maybe it was the open affection in his gaze. But Geralt felt something shift inside him as he looked into Jaskier’s eyes. Something clicked into place in a way nothing had since he had been sixteen years old, being kissed by Eskel for the first time.

“I assume I can’t tempt you to a dance?” Jaskier tilted his head to the side and batted his eyelashes.

Geralt’s mouth was suddenly dry. “You got me to wear the flower crown, bard. Don’t push your luck.”

“Oh, that’s what I figured.” Jaskier turned to smile at the pretty flower seller as she passed. “I think she’ll be more amenable, don’t you? I’ll be back. Don’t run off to brood in the woods. And don’t you dare take off that flower crown as soon as I turn away.”

Jaskier scampered off after the girl, leaving Geralt standing there, staring dumbly after him. Geralt leaned against Roach and grumbled, “Fuck.”

***

It turns out that Geralt didn’t make it that far from Oxenfurt in his aimless wanderings. If he’s being honest with himself, he didn’t want to travel that far from Oxenfurt. It only takes him and Eskel a night and most of a day to make it back to the city, arriving just past nightfall.

“Is he angry?” Geralt asks as he and Eskel climb the steps to Jaskier’s room.

“Not angry,” Eskel says. “Frustrated, confused, hurt. Concerned that your disappearance was part of a plot by Valdo Marx to throw him off his game.”

Despite his worry, Geralt snorts with laughter.

“I think he’ll be glad to see you.” Eskel looks back to smile softly back at Geralt. Geralt’s heart turns over in his chest.

They find Jaskier sitting at the table, scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment. Balled up bits of parchment litter the table and floor around him. When Eskel pushes open the door, Jaskier startles and whirls around. Eyes going wide, he scrambles to his feet.

“Oh, thank fuck.” Jaskier rushes across the room. Geralt expects him to fly into Eskel’s arms, but instead he throws his arms around Geralt and buries his face into his shoulder. “You fucking _idiot_. I was so worried. I thought something had happened to you, or that you were going to freeze to death out there in the wilderness.”

Geralt doesn’t respond. He closes his eyes, holding Jaskier against him. Jaskier must have just bathed; his skin is warm and smells clean and flowery. The curve of him is so familiar pressed against Geralt and he never wants to let him go.

“Geralt?” Jaskier places a hand on his cheek. “What happened?”

Eskel’s hand rests on Geralt lowers back. “A bath is in order, Wolf, and maybe something to eat. And then the three of us should talk.”

Reluctantly, Geralt lets go of Jaskier, who makes an unhappy noise at the loss of contact, but steps back.

“Eskel is right,” Jaskier says with false cheer. “I’ll go get us something to eat while you two go and bathe. You both smell like horse and onion.”

Normally, Geralt would have something pithy to say to that, but his mind is too full of too many things right now. Geralt and Eskel go to bathe and when they return, there are three meat pies and a jug of spiced wine waiting for them. Geralt is starving— the scrawny rabbit he and Eskel split the night before feels like it was ages ago— so he tucks into his pie in silence. Across the table, he can sense Eskel and Jaskier exchanging looks, but neither of them say a word to each other.

When their plates are cleared and their glasses of wine empty, Jaskier puts down his fork and takes a deep breath. “Geralt, I think I owe you an apology.”

Geralt looks up at him incredulously. “Why would you owe me an apology?”

“Because I was your host this winter.” Jaskier smiles thinly. “And I seem to have failed at keeping you happy and comfortable, which is all I wanted to do. So I apologize, Geralt. Truly. I never meant to make you feel that you weren’t welcome here.”

“You didn’t,” Geralt says.

“Then why did you prefer to go wandering around in the freezing Redanian winter over staying here with us?”

Geralt has no good answer to that.

Jaskier stares down at the table. “The thing is, Geralt, that I’ve been in love with you since I was eighteen. And for a long time, I was very good at bottling that up, because I knew you didn’t feel the same way about me and I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. Being your friend means everything to me. _You_ mean everything to me. And then I met Eskel.”

Eskel reaches over and takes Jaskier’s hand between both of his.

Jaskier’s voice drops to a whisper. “Once I fell in love with Eskel, I thought it would get better. Instead, it got harder to hide how much I care for you. Because loving Eskel made me realize that my feelings for you were no childish crush and that I love you just as much as I love him.”

Geralt can barely breathe. “Why?”

It’s a stupid question, but it’s apparently the right thing to say, because Jaskier bursts out laughing. “Why? I told you why, Geralt, the first night we knew each other. I was an eighteen year old idiot spouting off about golden palaces. You could have let me die. Our you could have abandoned me in the woods and left me to get eaten by a werewolf. But you didn’t. From the moment I met you, I was just drawn to you. I couldn’t have stopped myself from loving you, even if I had tried.”

“I knew you wanted to fuck me,” Geralt says.

“Who doesn’t?” Eskel’s lips quirk.

Geralt ignores him. “But I thought you got over it.”

“Never.” Jaskier stands up and walks around the table to cup Geralt’s face in his hands. “I told you a few years ago, don’t you remember? At that hideous little inn in Flotsam, when I got drunk and nearly got the shit beat out of me by those men. I thought I was going to die of embarrassment the next morning when I woke up, but you acted like nothing had happened.”

“I thought you were telling me you loved me as a friend. Or a comrade.”

Jaskier blinks. “A comrade.”

Geralt feels his face growing hot. “You never said.” Though now that he thinks about it, he can see all the little ways Jaskier _did_ say it. Baths waiting for him when he got home from hunts, songs that made him sound more heroic than he could ever hope to be, aldermen strong armed into paying him full price.

Jaskier’s lips curl into a small smile, like he knows what Geralt is thinking. “I never wanted you to feel like I expected something out of you, because I never did. Only your friendship. You could tell me now that you only ever want to be friends, and I would never speak of this again.”

Geralt stands up. “I came to Oxenfurt last summer to tell you that I’m in love with you.”

Jaskier lets out a long breath. “Oh, Geralt. That’s why you were acting so strangely that weekend.”

Geralt nods. “I left after the party because I overheard you and Eskel talking. I don’t want to ruin anything between the two of you.” He turns to Eskel, who is watching them. “I don’t want to get in the way.”

“You’re not ruining anything, Wolf,” Eskel says. “And you’re not getting to get in the way.”

“We want you.” Jaskier rests one hand on Geralt’s chest and leans against him. “We both want you. If that’s something you want.”

“Yes.” The word comes out strangled. Part of Geralt doesn’t believe this. He half-expects to wake up back in the middle of the Redanian woods, cold and alone. But he can smell the spiced wine on Jaskier’s breath and feel the warmth of the fire. This isn’t a dream. It’s better than anything his unconscious mind could fabricate.

Jaskier’s breath ghosts over his lips. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

“I think I do,” Geralt says and kisses him.

Jaskier’s mouth is sweet and warm, his hands deft as they thread themselves through Geralt’s hair. Geralt kisses him with all the desperation of months— no, years— of longing. He memorizes every gasp Jaskier makes, the way he shivers when Geralt nips at his bottom lip, the press of his body against Geralt’s. The smell of arousal behind him reminds him of Eskel’s presence and he pulls away from Jaskier. Eskel hasn’t moved, but his eyes are fastened to Jaskier and Geralt and his breathing is shallow.

“Care to join us, dear heart?” Jaskier aims for light and airy, but he’s too out of breath to manage it.

Eskel rises slowly and makes his way around the table. Jaskier turns to kiss him with every bit of the hunger he was just kissing Geralt with. Geralt starts to step back, but Eskel reaches out to grab him by the front of his shirt and pull him close so that his chest is pressing against Jaskier’s back. Jaskier’s ass fits snugly against the length of his erection and he realizes he can finally touch. He runs a hand over the smooth expanse of Jaskier’s back and down to cup the bard’s ass. Jaskier gasps into Eskel’s mouth.

“Bed,” Eskel growls and the three of them somehow manage to cross the room to the bed. Geralt regrets that he only has one mouth, because with Jaskier and Eskel both within his reach, he wants to taste every inch of them. He has to settle for a kiss brushed across Jaskier’s collarbone, a nip at Eskel’s lower lip, nuzzling at the scrape of stubble on Jaskier’s jaw. Clothes, armor, and boots fall to the floor and then the three of them are naked, all staring at each other.

Geralt has seen both Eskel and Jaskier naked before. He knows each of their bodies as well as he knows his own. But something about having them both here, both watching him with open want on their faces, takes his breath away. He turns to Eskel first, nuzzling at the dusting of dark hair on the other witcher’s chest. He has new scars accumulated since the last time they slept together— the scars on his face and the arrow wound on his belly, but also an old bite mark on his chest and a slash across his thigh. Geralt presses his lips against the bite mark, tasting the salt of Eskel’s skin.

“Gods, I’ve missed you, Wolf.” Eskel’s voice is hoarse.

Geralt runs a hand over the swell of Eskel’s pec and the curve of his belly, wrapping his fingers around the other man’s cock. Eskel moans. Hands settle on Geralt’s waist and he feels Jaskier press against his back. The head of Jaskier’s cock nudges at the cleft of Geralt’s ass and Geralt has to bite back a moan. Jaskier’s lips press against the back of his neck as his hand slides over Geralt’s ass.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispers. “Do you know how many years I’ve spent staring at this ass?”

“You can do more than stare at it,” Geralt tells him.

The noise Jaskier makes is half-whimper, half-moan and it may be one of the prettiest noises Geralt has ever heard. He swivels his head to capture Jaskier’s mouth with his. Eskel steps away and Geralt instantly misses the warmth of the other man’s body pressed against him, but Eskel returns in a moment with a jar of oil in his hand. Geralt’s cock twitches with interest. He knows that look in Eskel’s eyes.

“Turn around,” Eskel says and Geralt complies without hesitating, turning to face Jaskier.

The bard drops to his knees, stroking his hands down over Geralt’s thighs. “Gods, these thighs. They’re magnificent. I never knew thighs could be magnificent until I met you, Geralt.”

“You going to write a poem about them?” Geralt asks.

“I could.” Jaskier’s eyes twinkle. “ _For I’ve never seen anything as lovely with mine own eyes / as the White Wolf’s glorious fucking thighs._ ”

“Doesn’s scan, songbird.” Eskel runs one oiled-up finger over the crack of Geralt’s ass. Geralt sucks in a breath.

“Alas, you’re right.” Jaskier nuzzles at the head of Geralt’s cock. “I suppose I’ll have to search for inspiration elsewhere.”

Geralt can’t take his eyes away from those pink lips. He can feel the tickle of Jaskier’s breath on his balls. “Jaskier.”

“Hold on a moment, darling.” Jaskier presses tiny kisses to the insides of Geralt’s thighs. “I’m composing.”

“ _Jaskier._ ” The word comes out a gasp as Jaskier’s tongue flickers over his balls. “Please.”

Jaskier’s smile turns downright wolfish. “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

Eskel’s fingers are still running up and down Geralt’s ass, teasing at his entrance without slipping inside. Geralt tilts his head back and closes his eyes. “Listen, bard—”

Jaskier licks a stripe up Geralt’s shaft, then swallows down his cock at the same time Eskel slips a finger inside him. Only Eskel’s arm wrapped around Geralt’s waist stops him from collapsing into a boneless heap as Jaskier sucks at his cock and Eskel works him open with deft, clever fingers. The wet warmth of Jaskier’s mouth, the sight of Jaskier’s cheeks hollowed as he sucks, the brush of Eskel’s knuckles over his prostate, the familiar press of Eskel’s erection against his thigh… it’s all unbelievably good. Geralt is reduced to incoherent moans quicker than he would ever admit to and when he looks down, Jaskier is watching him with blue eyes filled with lust.

With one hand, Geralt reaches back to grab a handful of Eskel’s ass— Eskel always used to make a fuss over how much he liked Geralt’s ass, but in Geralt’s opinion, Eskel’s is far lovelier than his. With the other, he strokes gently over Jaskier’s hair and cheek. Jaskier’s own cock is hard and leaking pre-cum against his belly, unbelievably pretty, and Geralt finds himself staring at it, picturing when he’ll get to wrap his mouth around it.

Eskel’s fingers give a particularly clever twist just as the tip of Geralt’s cock brushes the back of Jaskier’s throat. He comes with a gasped moan and Jaskier sucks every drop down, moaning around Geralt’s cock. When Geralt pulls out, Jaskier looks up at him with flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

“Gods, Geralt.” His voice is hoarse. “You’re incredible.”

Geralt moans as Eskel slides another finger into him and pulls Jaskier to his feet. He kisses the bard, tasting himself on Jaskier’s tongue. With the hand that isn’t clutching onto Eskel for dear life, Geralt wraps his fingers around Jaskier’s cock. The bard’s hips buck.

“Everything about you is so fucking pretty, Jask.” Geralt runs his thumb over the head of Jaskier’s cock. “Even your cock.”

Jaskier gasps. “You’re one to talk. I used to forget how beautiful you were when we would separate for the season, tell myself that I had romanticized you in my mind. And then I would see you again and you would take my breath away all over again.”

Geralt feels heat rising to his face. “Don’t be ridiculous, bard.”

“I’ve been ridiculous the entire time you’ve known me, witcher.” Jaskier nods to Geralt’s hand wrapped around his cock. “It clearly works for you.”

Geralt has nothing to say to that, so he kisses Jaskier again. The heat of Jaskier’s mouth, Jaskier’s length in his hand, and Eskel’s fingers in his ass are all so fucking good that he can feel himself growing hard again. Pulling his mouth from Jaskier’s, he says, “I’m ready, Esk.”

“Maybe for one of us,” Eskel murmurs. “But not for both. Songbird, some help?”

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” is all Geralt can say as Jaskier’s clever fingers join Eskel’s. Geralt has lost track of how many fingers are inside him— all he knows is that they feel incredible. He’s fully hard and aching again when he manages to gasp, “Just fuck me already.”

“Mm.” Eskel nuzzles at his throat. “You think you can handle both of us at once?”

Geralt shivers at the prospect. “Yes.”

Eskel gently withdraws his hand, followed by Jaskier, and Geralt moves. Scooping the bard up in his arms, he gently throws Jaskier down on the bed and climbs on top of him. He silences the bard’s laughter with a kiss, desperate to taste him. Jaskier’s body feels as familiar to him as if they’ve done this a hundred times before, and yet so new. Geralt strokes his hands over the hair on Jaskier’s chest and his surprisingly strong shoulders and his flat stomach. When he digs his fingers into Jaskier’s hips, the bard groans.

“Geralt, I’m not going to last long enough to get inside you if you keep kissing me like that.”

Geralt presses his lips to the scar left by the bruxa’s teeth. “Have a lot of time to make up for.”

“And we will.” Jaskier nuzzles at the top of his head. “But we have all the time in the world, my love.”

Geralt knew this wouldn’t just be a one-night thing, but it feels good to hear Jaskier say it. He presses one last kiss to the hollow of Jaskier’s throat and straddles Jaskier’s hips. He feels the tip of Jaskier’s cock brush his hole and he swallows back a little moan. He leans back and finds Eskel standing behind him. Eskel presses feather-light kisses to the side of Geralt’s neck, his breathing ragged with want.

Jaskier settles his hands on Geralt’s hips, looking up at Geralt with more love and lust and awe than Geralt could ever have imagined. When he begins to inch his way inside of Geralt, Geralt presses back against Eskel’s chest. Jaskier feels fantastic inside him and when he begins to roll his hips in shallow thrusts, Geralt fists his hands in the sheets.

He feels the nudge of Eskel’s cock against him. “You ready for me, Wolf?”

Geralt turns to press a kiss against Eskel’s chest. “Always.”

Jaskier and Geralt moan in unison when Eskel begins to slide into Geralt. In the years since Eskel last fucked him, Geralt forgot how good Eskel felt inside him. He and Jaskier both hold still, panting, until Eskel bottoms out.

“Alright?” Eskel asks.

Geralt nods, barely able to breathe. “Are you two going to fuck me already, or should I have brought a book to keep myself occupied?”

Eskel huffs a laugh. “Jaskier has plenty of books around here, we could just—”

“Fuck me,” Geralt growls.

“Well, since you asked so nicely.”

In unison, Eskel and Jaskier begin to move, their cocks sliding inside of Geralt like they’ve practiced this. Any further comments Geralt could make are driven right out of his head, because they feel fucking incredible. The stretch is on the edge of too much, but Jaskier’s cock is brushing his prostate with each thrust and when Jaskier’s hand wraps around his cock, Geralt goes near-mindless with pleasure.

“You two feel so fucking good,” he manages to say. “So fucking—”

Eskel increases the tempo of his thrusts and Jaskier follows suit. Geralt comes with a hoarse cry, decorating Jaskier’s stomach and chest. Jaskier laughs breathlessly, his blue eyes never leaving Geralt’s face. Geralt will never grow tired of Jaskier looking at him like that. When Jaskier reaches his orgasm, he tilts back his head and moans, fingers digging into Geralt’s sides. Geralt bends to capture the sounds of his pleasure with his mouth, reveling in the way Jaskier gasps against him. Jaskier’s softening cock slips out of him, leaving just Eskel.

“Keep kissing him,” Eskel says and Geralt is only too happy to comply, kissing the bard breathless as Eskel pounds into him. He feels the moan vibrating through Eskel’s chest when he reaches his peak. Eskel pulls out of him and collapses on the bed next to Jaskier. He snakes an arm around Geralt’s waist, pulling him and Jaskier close, and buries his face into Jaskier’s hair. The three of them lie there for a long moment, all breathing heavily.

“Fuck,” Jaskier finally says, breaking the silence. “I’m dead. You two have actually killed me.”

“Chatty corpse.” Geralt nips at his shoulder. “Get the silver, Esk.”

Jaskier swats at his chest. “Are you calling me a ghoul, Geralt? Because if you are, this is the last time you will ever have me in bed.”

“Hm, that’s a shame.” Geralt grins down at him. “I walked in on the two of you a couple of weeks ago. I was hoping to reenact what I saw.”

He hears Jaskier’s heart rate pick up, though the bard feigns indifference. Feigns it poorly, that is. “Oh? When?”

“The night in the tavern where you sang that stupid vampire song.”

“That song is not—”

“I came back from the brothel early in the morning.”

“Ah.” Eskel grins wickedly, not even a little bit embarrassed. “I remember that night.”

“So do I.” Jaskier heaves a sigh, already turning over onto his belly. “I suppose I can forgive you, Geralt, just this once.”

Geralt grins and begins kissing his way down Jaskier's back.

Much, much later— after the three of them have thoroughly worn themselves out and the fire is worn down to cinders— Geralt finds himself lying in between Eskel and Jaskier. Jaskier’s head is pillowed on Geralt’s chest, while Eskel is curled against Geralt’s other side, his arm thrown over Geralt’s waist. Geralt is warm and sore and happier than he can ever remember being.

“Go to sleep, Wolf,” Eskel mumbles into his skin. “Your thinking is keeping me awake.”

Geralt brushes a kiss over Eskel’s cheek. He finds himself taking absolutely any excuse to kiss Jaskier and Eskel; he can’t stop himself. “But I’m thinking about good things for once.”

Eskel nuzzles closer. “Think about good things tomorrow.”

Smiling, Geralt closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.

***

Realizing he was in love with Jaskier was well and good enough. Figuring out what the fuck to do about it was another matter entirely. After he and Jaskier parted for the summer, Geralt spent weeks weighing his options. His first instinct was to ignore his feelings, to carry on how things had always been. But even if Jaskier didn’t return his feelings, he deserved to know how Geralt felt. Geralt had never been able to lie to him and he didn’t want to start now.

The plan formed slowly in Geralt’s mind after countless sleepless nights and monologues to Roach and the occasional indifferent whore. He wasn’t sure why he decided that the Oxenfurt Music Festival was the time to confess his love to Jaskier, but it seemed appropriate. Hopefully the festivities would put Jaskier in the mood to at least listen to what Geralt had to say.

But first, he needed a token of his affection to give to Jaskier, so he stopped in Novigrad. 

“Elven made,” the merchant told Geralt. “The finest craftsmanship money can buy.”

“Hm.” Geralt weighed the blade carefully in his hand, then put it down with an annoyed grunt. It was balanced wrong. “What else do you have?”

The merchant’s lips thinned with annoyance. He was the third one Geralt had been to in Novigrad and none of them had exactly what he was looking for. The problem was that Geralt wasn’t even quite sure _what_ he was looking for. Something to keep Jaskier safe when Geralt wasn’t around. Silver, just in case it was a monster instead of a man threatening him. Beautiful enough that Jaskier would carry it with pride, and smile and think of Geralt fondly whenever he looked at it.

Something that told Jaskier how much Geralt loved him, when Geralt didn’t quite have the words to say it himself.

“I assure you, this is one of my finest blades,” the merchant said. “If not the finest blade you’ll find in Novigrad.”

“Hardly.” Geralt snorted. “It’s not elven made. Dwarven, I think, but not by an expert’s hand. Probably an apprentice. It’s a decent enough blade, for amateur craftsmanship, but it’s not worth two hundred crowns.”

The merchant swelled indignantly.

“Don’t worry,” Geralt said. “You’ll find some noble who doesn’t know a blade from his own prick to buy it. But it’s not what I’m after.”

“Well.” The merchant gestured to his wares with a sarcastic little bow. “Please tell me what you’re looking for then, Master Witcher.”

Geralt surveyed the weapons in front of them. There were some fine blades among them— and some less than fine ones. He briefly considered an ornate short sword, but decided it was too bulky for Jaskier, and then a pair of tiny blades that could be easily hidden under a doublet. Then his eyes fell on a lovely, slim dagger with a sheathe carved to look like a phoenix’s head. The sapphire eyes were the same shade as Jaskier’s.

“Ah, that one was crafted to fit a lady’s hand,” the merchant said when Geralt picked it up.

Geralt snorted. “Knives don’t give a fuck what kind of hands are holding them. How much?”

The merchant charged Geralt more than the knife was worth, but he only made a half-hearted attempt at haggling. He wrapped his new purchase up carefully and tucked it into the saddle bag.

“Let’s go get him, Roach,” he told the horse, and then they headed towards Oxenfurt.

Towards Jaskier.

***

It’s been years since Geralt has been to a proper Imbaelk celebration. In Kaer Morhen, they always light a bonfire, but they never have the supplies for the traditional meals and offerings. And even during winters where he doesn’t make it to Kaer Morhen, witchers aren’t typically welcome at festivals. But life at Oxenfurt— life with Jaskier and Eskel— seems to be different, so he finds himself at the heart of the festival, moving through the crowds of students and townspeople. His arm is linked with Jaskier’s, Eskel on Jaskier’s other side, and the bard’s warm body is pressed against him. The scent of woodsmoke hangs heavy in the air from the bonfires lit all over the city.

“It’s like they want to burn down the city,” Geralt grumbles as they pass yet another bonfire with a small crowd gathered around it.

“There are mages everywhere to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Jaskier’s cheeks are pink from the cold and the mulled wine he’s been drinking all day and his eyes are bright. “You worry more than my grandmother, Geralt.”

“They’re probably about the same age,” Eskel teases.

Geralt snorts and rolls his eyes. In the months since that fateful night where Eskel dragged him back to Oxenfurt, the three of them have fallen into an easy rhythm. Being with the two of them feels natural in a way nothing has since Blaviken. 

“Too fucking cold for a festival anyway,” Geralt grumbles.

“That’s because we’re celebrating the end of winter. Have I mentioned that you complain as much as my grandmother too?” Jaskier bumps Geralt’s hip with his. “I’m starting to think you just don’t like festivals.”

He grins in a way that reminds Geralt of Belleteyn and the moment Jaskier smiled at him from under his too-large flower crown and something inside Geralt’s heart shifted irreversibly. Caught up in that smile, Geralt leans over to plant a long, lingering kiss on his lips.

“I like festivals just fine when you’re here,” he murmurs when Jaskier pulls away.

“I think that’s a lie.” The tip of Jaskier’s ice cold nose brushes against Geralt’s. “But it’s a sweet one.”

Eskel chuckles. “He’s always been like this, songbird. Don’t take it personally.”

“Oh, I don’t.” Jaskier turns his head to kiss Eskel. “At least one of you will go to festivals without complaining.”

“I don’t complain that much,” Geralt says with mock irritation.

Both of his lovers give him skeptical looks.

When they reach the giant bonfire in the middle of the university’s quad, Shani and Priscilla are waiting for them, along with Essi and a group of her friends from school. Shani and Priscilla both look smug, as they do every time they see Geralt, Eskel, and Jaskier together. Shani passes them cups of mulled wine and the group stands together, staring up at the towering wall of firelight.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Jaskier murmurs.

Geralt turns to look at Eskel and Jaskier, both watching the bonfire with awe in their expressions. “Sure is.”

Jaskier catches his gaze and laughs. “You know, if someone told me a couple of months ago that Geralt of Rivia was a secret romantic, I would assume they drank too much mead.”

“You bring it out in him, songbird.” Eskel kisses Jaskier on the cheek.

“You both do.” As Jaskier snuggles against his side, Geralt reaches around him to take Eskel’s hand in his as they watch the fire burn away the winter chill.

In a matter of weeks, the term will come to an end and it will be warm enough for Geralt and Eskel to return to the Path. Geralt and Jaskier will travel together during the spring while Eskel heads south, before meeting up at the beginning of the summer so Eskel can accompany Jaskier on his circuit of the music festivals. In the autumn, the three of them will reunite and travel together before going to Kaer Morhen for the winter.

Geralt will miss this peace, the safety that the walls of Oxenfurt offer. He’ll miss the nights of being curled in a warm bed with his two lovers. He’ll miss the bathhouse and the games of Gwent and watching Jaskier’s lectures. He’ll miss spending time with Priscilla, Shani, and Essi.

But ahead of him are nights curled up on a bedroll with Jaskier, no longer having to keep his hands and his lips to himself. Returning to their camp after a hunt and finding Jaskier’s gentle hands and soothing words waiting for him. Getting to travel the Continent with one of the men he loves, listening as Jaskier composes on the road.

And then, there will be Eskel. There will always be Eskel. The two of them have been finding their way back to each other for nearly a century now. That’s not going to end anytime soon.

The three of them will return to Oxenfurt eventually, Geralt knows. And between now and then, there will be other moments of peace and calm snatched among the chaos of the Path. Other warm beds all over the Continent. Other days and nights spent in each other’s arms.

So for now, Geralt stands with his lovers, Eskel’s hand warm in his and Jaskier’s body pressed against his side, and lets himself be happy.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. Chapter 2 should be up on Sunday afternoon!
> 
> Feel free to find me on [Tumblr](https://ghostinthelibrarywrites.tumblr.com/) or Discord at ghostinthelibrary#1691


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